Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies
by Skiaria
Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Angst John. Teenchester. AU. Not Brotherhood Approved. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. RATED M.

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can. _

_This disclaimer will appear with every chapter._

_**Rating: M. Warning.** Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide. _

———————————————————————————————————

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 1**

_In this farewell  
There's no blood  
There's no alibi  
'Cause I've drawn regret  
From the truth  
Of a thousand lies_

So let mercy come  
And wash away  
What I've done

_  
—"What I've Done", Linkin Park_

**Now:  
**_May 14__th__, Louisville, KY_

The cold was unforgiving as it bit through Dean Winchester's grimy t-shirt, making him shiver. Though cold, the wind brought a crisp freshness to the air, a smell of new beginnings and second chances. But he knew his second chances were lost.

Standing on the barrier wall of the bridge, Dean looked into the dark swirling water far below. He gripped one of the truss' metal aged support beams. He wondered if the bridge was high enough that hitting the water would kill him or if he'd sink deeply into the water and drown. Either case was acceptable so long as finality was the result.

Hot droplets of tears streamed down his face. His father had taken away his brother, Sam, Dean's only source of comfort and strength in the bleak world he was adrift in. Then his father had abandoned Dean. He could still feel the restraints on his ankles and wrists, still feel the bite of the needle into his arm. He felt as if his world had crumbled.

"Son," Officer Pete Darling said calmly, not wanting to startle the young man. The young man was skinny, pallid, and dressed in fairly new jeans, a ragged green t-shirt, and worn black boots. Darling could see rich dark blond stubble on his face. He looked like he'd been on the streets at least a few weeks, if his almost beard was any measure of it.

Dean flinched but didn't turn. Instead, he nudged himself closer to the far edge of the wall. God, he hated heights. He couldn't quite bring himself to take that final step. His courage had been lost, had been ripped from him violently, humiliatingly, painfully. He prayed that the despair that swallowed him would grant him the strength he needed for this last, fatal act. At least then her screaming would stop.

"Could we talk, son?" Darling's voice was earnest as he asked gently. "If you're going to jump, could a minute more hurt anything?"

"I don't want to talk," Dean whispered. He didn't know if he could be heard above the whistling wind. He didn't really care.

"You look scared," the officer said, concern lacing his words. "You look like you think you're alone. You don't have to be either." Darling watched the young man intensely, measuring any reaction his words provoked. He would know soon enough how determined the youth was to end his life.

Dean turned his head just enough to see the man. The police officer looked in his early thirties, was almost six feet tall with shortly clipped chocolate brown hair, and probably played football when he was younger. Lacking the stereotypical spare tire at his midsection, his waist was trim and he obviously worked out regularly. His face was clean-shaven and had a slightly rounded look, inset with caring hazel eyes.

_A cop. The last resort. Isn't that ironic?_ Dean wanted to laugh._ I'm standing here as my last resort, and the last resort shows up._

For just a moment, Dean wished he had on the warm-looking coat the officer wore and he wished he wasn't standing on the bridge, shivering in the numbing wind. When the man shifted slightly, Dean glimpsed a silver badge on the man's shirt and the black leather holster with the 9-mm nestled inside it. Automatically Dean identified it as a Smith and Wesson third generation 9x19 mm Luger, aluminum and stainless steel, 10 shot semi-automatic pistol. A nice gun with a weight of 809 grams, length of 190 mm with the barrel making up 102 mm of that length. His father had one and Dean had practiced regularly with the 9-mm on the range and used that gun a few times on hunts. Those hunts left him exhilarated and feeling invulnerable. That Dean was gone now, destroyed in the warehouse.

"I am alone." Dean's voice was flat and matter-of-fact. There was no one left to turn to. Any of them would take him to his father and his father would abandon him again to that place of restraints and needles and drugs, to that place which smelled of antiseptics and _him_. The smell of _him_ had made Dean strike out, had made him run. He vowed he would not be helpless again. _Never again._ No matter the cost, no matter whom he hurt, he would never again be so helpless that he couldn't save them.

That vow turned to bitter ash as he stood on the bridge. He'd already failed them. There was no going back, no changing what had happened in that warehouse. He bowed his head as that knowledge shredded his soul and ripped out his heart. He choked back a sob. Scared and alone, the cop had said. Yes. He was. There was no remedy for his torment or his shame except to step off the bridge. He would feel as if he could fly for those brief seconds, then the water, and maybe even the world, would surge around him and the fear and aloneness would be forever gone. His heart ached with that desire.

Darling saw the conflicting emotions of pain, anger, and fear cross the young man's face and knew in that instant he had a chance of saving the youth. The youth—teenager, he amended after consideration—hadn't yet crossed that line; he wasn't sure he was ready to die. If Darling could keep him talking, if Darling could get close enough, he could save the teen. Darling made a discreet gesture to his partner, Pongo. Pongo, a black man in his late twenties, gave a sharp nod and readied himself.

Darling shuffled cautiously forward as he asked, "What's your name?"

The young man didn't answer and Darling chewed on the inside of his cheek. That was usually a bad sign. Maybe a fishing trip. "You say you're alone. What about your mom?"

The officer's question brought Dean's attention back to the bridge and to the cold wind he shivered in. His determination to end the screaming, the horrible memories, and the anguish swelled. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

"She's dead." _Burned alive, slit open, and pinned to the ceiling by some monster. But I can't tell you that. You wouldn't believe me anyhow._

Darling winced and wondered how long ago the young man had suffered her loss. Could his mother's death be the reason he was on the bridge? "Your dad?" Darling asked hopefully but feared the answer would be the same.

Dean's voice turned bitter. "He's the one who stole what I needed, what I had left. He's the one who left me. To them." Dean's hold loosened on the truss. The metal was icy cold and he could feel the crackled paint beneath his fingers. If he could just bring himself to the wall's edge, to feel nothing but air beneath the toes of his boots, he could do it. He could make that last step into the night and he thought maybe he would whoop with delight as he fell, knowing it was almost over.

"Who is 'them'?" Darling asked. He kept an attentive eye on the young man's face and stance. Asking the wrong question could be fatal.

The young man seemed unaware of the decreasing distance between them. If Darling could just get close enough to pull the teen to safety, maybe they could help him find his way back to hope.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut a moment and shook his head. "Doesn't matter." Even with the fresh air caressing him, he could still smell … _him_. For a split second he thought he'd puke and he gripped the truss tighter. The bile rose in the back of his throat and he forced it down. He didn't want his last few minutes preceded with him spewing his guts all over the bridge. He didn't want anyone to think he'd puked because he was afraid to jump. Especially, he didn't want Sammy to think that. He wanted Sammy to think of him as finally regaining his courage and doing what he had to do. He prayed Sammy would understand but knew he probably wouldn't. At least this would be the final betrayal of his promise, of the trust Sammy put in him, and he wouldn't fail Sammy ever again.

Trying to keep the young man talking and distracted, Darling said, "This would be a lot easier if I knew your name."

Instead of answering, Dean focused his gaze past the officer. He could see the police cars parked to block traffic, their blue and red lights tiny spinning lighthouses in the night. A news truck, its roof bristling with a satellite dish and antennae, had positioned itself beyond those spinning lights.

He cringed at seeing the news truck. One of the main rules was that he wasn't supposed to draw attention to himself. _Both of you, just keep your heads down and stay out of trouble. I'm sure the two of you can manage a little while longer. _His father's voice sounded tinny in his memory. Distant and even a little derogatory. He'd failed. He hadn't done what his father told him. He'd failed his father. He'd failed Sammy. He'd failed Isabelle.

Darling saw the teen wince as he looked toward the lights and people gathered at the end of the bridge. The young man didn't want attention; he wanted to stand on the bridge in solitude, take a deep breath, and plummet to his death. Darling was determined he wasn't going to let that happen. A far away look drifted into the young man's gaze, suggesting the teen was lost in his memories. The officer tried another tack as he inched forward. "What happened to your hand?"

Dean inhaled sharply, those memories returning in brutal flashes. The warehouse. The chair. The handcuffs. Her screams intermixed with the jumper cables and the beatings. The…table. What they did to him on the table. What they did to Sammy.

Darling saw the young man shudder as his grip tightened on the support beam until his knuckles were white. This was the source, the officer knew. Whatever had happened to the teen's damaged hand was tied to why he stood on the bridge contemplating suicide. This knowledge could be useful if Darling handled it carefully.

Bringing his right hand up, Dean stared at it. Gleaming skin traced the reconstructive surgeries. The scars would have faded soon enough, given time. Most of his scars did that, turning into nothing more than faint reminders of the injuries. If only the scars left inside him would have so readily faded. He tried to bend his fingers; the index finger and middle finger didn't bend very well and the tendons for his ring finger and pinky were too tight, causing them to pull in toward his palm. The doctors had been steadfastly working on the repair of his hand as bones and tendons healed but his hand didn't really work quite right yet. Had he had two or three surgeries for his hand? His dad had said after two (or was it three?) more surgeries, his hand would be like new. His arm looked unnaturally thin and pale, the cast having come off…he wasn't really sure when, but not that long ago. He recalled unwrapping the white bandages that covered the incisions from the last surgery. Those incisions were all but healed now. If nothing else, he had been careful to keep them clean while they healed. Standing on the bridge, it seemed ludicrous that he'd been concerned about infection and scarring on his arm.

The last cast had been blue, he recalled. He'd almost gotten red, then decided against it, afraid it would fade to pink and he'd feel really silly with a pink cast on his arm. He shook his head a little. No, he knew it wouldn't fade. _I didn't want to be reminded of _her_ blood. Blue was better. Blue was…Caleb._

Beneath his jeans, his right leg was like his arm. Thin. Pale. Recently broken but now healed. His body had finally gotten used to the lack of the extra weight of the cast and his hip no longer twinged when he walked a lot. If he still had the cast on, he'd sink faster in the water he supposed. He started to turn his head back to look out over the water.

Darling saw the fear flicker across the youth's face as the youth stared at his damaged hand. His countenance softened into sadness as his fear shifted into less frightful memories. Whatever happened to the young man's hand took him out of the present and allowed Darling to get that much closer to him. He hated doing it, but he had to keep the young man's attention away from the present if he could, so he asked again, "Son, what happened to your hand?"

Dean swiveled his gaze back to the officer. His eyes flicked over the man, distractedly noting the officer had moved closer. "They were fixing it. Doesn't matter anymore. Everything's still broken," he said. He shivered again. He was so cold. The water would surely be icy. A smile tugged at his lips. The cold water would help him die that much faster. Hypothermia would steal his consciousness and he'd simply fade away.

Why was he was letting the cop talk to him? Why was he letting him move closer? The cop couldn't do anything. The police never could. _Not true. They helped get you away from the warehouse,_ his thoughts scolded him.

The youth's green eyes filled with hopelessness. "You tried to save me, but you were too late. They'd already done this to me. Made me like this."

The officer furrowed his brow. "Made you like what?"

"Broken," Dean said as his gaze shifted from the officer and back to the night. He wanted to deny it, but if he wasn't broken would he be ready to fall into the distant water's embrace? He felt some modicum of courage creep into him and he inhaled deeply. _Like she had inhaled before she'd betrayed me._

Yes. He was ready. He could do this.

"You're not broken," Darling said and took a step closer to the teenager. The young man's stance had changed and the lines on his face had shifted to grim determination. _Shit. This is it,_ Darling thought and motioned to his partner.

Dean began to laugh as he let go of the bridge's support beam. "I'm standing on a bridge, getting ready to kill myself. If that's not broken, then what is?" He sobered suddenly. "Broken," Dean whispered, drew on that courage he'd wrenched from the depths inside himself, and stepped off.

———————————————————————————————————

TBC.

—See "Paper Tiger" by Ridley James to understand the reference of "Blue was…Caleb"


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

_Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU._

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. **__**The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom.**_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can. _

_This disclaimer will appear with every chapter_

_**Rating: M. Warning.**__ Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide. _

———————————————————————————————————

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 2**

_I heard the men saying something  
__The captains tell they pay you well  
__And they say they need sailing men to  
__Show the way, and leave today  
__Was it you that said, "How long, how long?"_

—_Point of Know Return, Kansas_

**Then:  
**_March 4__th__, Deidersville, IL_

Dean propped himself against the cracked plaster wall, his arms folded across his chest. John Winchester, his father, looked tired to him, his face pinched and even a little gaunt. He knew his father hadn't been sleeping much and what sleep he got was fitful at best. He knew because he'd hear his father moan at night. Whisper. Startle awake from nightmares. Dean would get up and bring him water, or juice if they had it. If the nightmare was bad enough, he'd pour John two fingers of whiskey in a small glass and hand it to him wordlessly. Sometimes his father would take a sip, smile tightly at him, tell Dean he was fine, and that Dean should go back to bed. Other times he'd toss the drink back, his breath hissing as the hot fire rolled down his throat and into his belly. Dean would sit next to him for a few minutes and tell him about some inane event that happened at school. Or he'd make something up, preferably something that would make his father chuckle, even if it was just a little chuckle, even if the chuckle was as much a lie as the story Dean told him. Dean liked to think it helped, but he wasn't really sure it did.

"Dad, this school really sucks," Dean said as John continued to pack the military green duffel with clothes and supplies. John picked up the 9-mm from the beat up wooden table, checked the clip in the gun and, after putting the safety on and sliding the gun into its holster, laid the gun on top of a pair of old jeans in the duffel.

"Mine, too," Sam said sullenly from where he sat in the metal chair, his legs swinging back and forth, too short to reach the linoleum floor unless he stretched his toes downward. He knew he looked as miserable as Dean. He loathed where they were and wished they were back in Ohio, or at least with Pastor Jim. The school they'd left in Ohio had been the best school he could ever remember being in. Almost immediately, he'd been placed in the gifted program and he reveled in the challenge. He'd even made the soccer team which had gone on to win the division championship. His gaze flicked to the small gold trophy sitting in the living room by the couch and felt a moment of pride. Sure, he'd won a few—okay, a lot—of ribbons at science fairs, but this was a _trophy_. Never as fast as Dean, never the natural hunter Dean was, never the marksman, never…good enough, but for once, he'd seen pride in his father's eyes over _him_, not Dean. For once, he'd met his father's expectations and that meant everything to him.

Dean sighed to himself as he watched his father pack. Like Sam, he had loved the previous school. On the very first day, Dean had made friends with David Ascott, one of the in-crowd. Typically, Dean inserted himself with the bad-boys, his attitude usually a perfect fit with theirs. David wasn't anything like his normal crowd. He was popular and well-liked by most everyone and Dean thought it was just a little odd that a guy like David wanted to hang with a new kid with ripped jean, obvious second-hand clothes, and a smart mouth. What really cinched the friendship between them was their mutual interests. David listened to classic rock, loved to talk old cars, had an epic electric guitar that he taught Dean to pick out a few tunes on, and rode a motorcycle that he taught Dean how to ride. John about had a fit over that one and Dean was privately gleeful of that little rebellion against his father. Dean quickly decided David was cool as hell, and even broke _the_ major rule, tellingDavid about what was out in the dark, hunting, and how his mother had died. David took Dean quite seriously and their bond of friendship grew even deeper. With David's encouragement, Dean racked up straight A's, and, at his insistence, Dean tried out for the baseball team and made first string. He hadn't been in any fights, hadn't even drawn a detention; Sammy proclaimed it a miracle.

Even John had taken to David's family, talking with Ruth and Jerry, David's parents, more than Dean could ever recall his father talking with "civilians." When the Ascotts insisted the Winchesters have Christmas Eve dinner with them, to Dean and Sam's shock, John agreed. Ruth made up Christmas stockings for all of them, the stockings stuffed with candies and homemade cookies, comic books, and car magazines. Presents under the tree included David's "old" leather coat for Dean, a box of used books of classic literature for Sam, and a new gun cleaning kit for John. Dean had proudly presented David a gift-wrapped box containing one of his favorite pocket knives (and a small vial of holy water and small container of salt—just in case) and Sam had found a dragon in a second hand shop and proclaimed it David's protector named Vidda. John, forewarned by Dean to expect presents, had Bobby make a handsome trunk of oak, inlaid with darker wood edged in fine lines of silver. The Ascotts made a big to-do over it.

For as wonderful as those four months were, Dean knew they came at a cost. John had spent all but his last dime just to give Sam and Dean that special present of a normal Christmas and a normal life. Dean also knew that staying extra long there had stretched the money too thin and it was the reason they were now living in the shit-hole called the Starliner Motel. The fucked up job John had in the beginning of the year should have been a clue as to what was ahead. That job had that left John with broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, and Caleb in the hospital from falling on John's shovel when the house collapsed. Helluva birthday present that had been for Caleb. If only Dean hadn't backed out of the hunt, wanting to go to Caleb's birthday party in New York City; if only his father hadn't been a bastard and made Caleb go in his stead. Maybe his father thought Dean had tasted too much of a candy-cane life and it was time for reality to set back in. Yeah, nice reminder of their "normal" life, Dean trying to choose whose hospital bedside to sit by, his father's or his best friend's. John had said they would stay with Caleb long enough for Dean's birthday, but they hadn't, and then ended up in Deidersville for a follow-up. Without a doubt, this year was shaping up to be the year from Hell.

John paused in his packing to look at his two sons and heard the edge to his voice as he told them, "I know we aren't in the best section of town, but boys, we're about out of money. You could be in better schools, or we can eat and have a roof over our heads."

"You call this a roof?" Dean muttered, looking at the cigarette-stained yellowed ceiling that leaked in three places, the tan walls with their numerous holes and peeling paint, the boarded up window, and the musty smelling gold carpet encrusted with more stains than a centipede had legs.

"Couldn't we go to Pastor Jim's for awhile?" Dean asked hopefully and saw the same hope in his little brother's eyes. They went to school there whenever they stayed for any length of time at Pastor Jim's and were always greeted warmly by their schoolmates. Dean was an outsider there and knew it, but at least it was familiar and he didn't have to prove himself to anyone.

John ran his fingers through his dark hair, feeling his temper flare. "I can't keep asking him to take care of you boys. I'm sorry, but no," he said, and went over to the cupboard and grabbed a box of rock salt, making sure the boys still had enough to keep the windows and door protected. "This hunt is a big hunt. Jonas is going to pay me five hundred dollars plus gas and ammo." He suspected Mackland Ames had a hand in seeing John get offered a hunt that paid, but he needed the money and was willing to pretend otherwise. "If nothing else, one of the credit cards is bound to come through soon. We'll see how money is come Spring Break and maybe we can afford to move to a new place."

Both boys saw the look in John's eyes and knew that was about as likely as them winning the lottery.

"As soon as school ends, we'll get out of this town, even if we have to camp at a park," John promised them.

Dean winced and Sam groaned. They both hated camping. Camping always correlated to them being broke. No TV or electricity, and community showers, assuming they could afford the nicer parks that had showers. It sucked when they had to bathe using cold water from the sinks. Dinners were PB&Js, beans, or anything else cheap they could scrounge. At this point, though, both of them would embrace camping if they could just leave now.

"Dad," Dean said quietly, "our schools are rough. It's not safe for Sammy." He hoped the potential threat to Sammy's welfare would be enough to make John listen and get them the hell out of the place.

"And Dean pissed off some guys at his school," Sam piped up and was rewarded with a glower from his brother.

"It's nothing," Dean growled.

"It's not nothing," Sam insisted and turned to his father. "Dad, they threatened Dean all last week. They're going to hurt him." Worry showed plainly on the pudgy twelve-year-old's face.

John's jaw clenched as he told himself his boys could handle themselves; they only had to get through these next couple weeks then, come hell or high water, he'd find a way to get his boys out of the cesspool they were enduring. He stared distractedly at the packed duffel, his thoughts constantly drifting back to the bruises he'd seen on the boys. John knew both Sam and Dean were right. They had to get out and soon, before trouble escalated. Until then, he had to let his boys know he had confidence in them. "They're just kids. You can handle yourselves against them. Both of you, just keep your heads down and stay out of trouble. I'm sure the two of you can manage a little while longer."

"Dad, Dean's in danger," Sam persisted.

"I'm sure Dean can handle it," John said before Dean could interject.

"Dad—" Sam started.

"Enough, Sam!" John snapped.

Dean cringed as he saw the anger building in both his brother and father. Sam didn't know when to back down and compromise wasn't in John's vocabulary, at least not when it came to his sons. Dean was getting tired of playing referee but resigned himself to the fact it was probably only going to get worse as Sammy got older.

"But—" Sam said.

John zipped the duffel closed, and threw it over his right shoulder. "I said, that's enough," John growled, his dark eyes flashing. "You both are just going to have to suck it up a few more weeks."

"Sell my car, Dad," Dean blurted out, before Sam pushed the matter any further. "It would get us a couple hundred. Then we could be someplace a little better. A little safer for Sam." He despised the thought of losing his first set of wheels, but he'd rather that than being stuck in this place another three freaking months. His school wasn't just rough, it was dangerous, what with half the students carrying weapons of one type or another and the vicious gang, the Dementors, all but controlling his school. Sammy's school wasn't much better. In the shadows at Sam's school, drug dealers peddled their wares while at Dean's, money and baggies of pills, crack, marijuana, cocaine, and a half-dozen other drugs, exchanged hands out in the open. Syringes and broken crack pipes were common litter just about everywhere. It shocked the hell out of Dean when the school—twice—called John about fights Dean had gotten into and then again for him missing a few days of school. They let the drug dealers pass their poison but the school whined at some fisticuffs and truancy? Talk about a pain in the ass of a paradox.

John scowled at his eldest. "Bobby gave you that car. I know it's not much, but it gives you and Sam a way to get around when I'm not here."

"We'll walk," Dean and Sam said in unison.

The last thing John wanted was his boys walking in this section of town if they didn't have to. He shook his head, a hardness coming into his voice. "The Impala could crap out on us any day. We can't afford to lose the GTO, not until the Impala's engine is rebuilt," he said, putting finality into his tone but desperately wishing it could be otherwise. The couple hundred they'd get for Dean's car just wouldn't be enough unless they headed straight out to Bobby's and the family took charity from the man. John loved Bobby Singer like a brother, but after a few weeks in close proximity to one another, they got on each other's nerves. Besides, he couldn't drag his two boys and himself there and expect Bobby to put them up for the next few months while John worked on rebuilding the engine. He knew Jim Murphy would welcome the family, but dammit, _he_ was their father. _He_ should be able to provide for his own boys. He hadn't been this fucking broke in a long time and was furious with himself for letting it get so bad.

Dean saw his dad's mind was made up about the car. There would be no winning this battle. Nothing to do but make the best of it. Dean nodded and tried to smile. He pushed off from the wall, walked over to stand next to his brother, and put his hand on the back of the Sammy's chair. "I understand. We'll manage," Dean assured John.

Gratitude colored John's eyes. He was proud of Dean for stepping up to face the reality of their current situation. Broke was broke and there was little he could do beyond taking the job when Jonas had offered it.

"How long will you be gone?" Dean asked, keeping the frustration from his voice with effort.

"I'm supposed to meet up with Jonas this afternoon; I'll be leaving the car at his place, and we're taking off in his truck. Once we get where we're going, it's at least a half a day's hike to the hunt. I doubt my phone's going to work where we're going, so stay out of trouble this week. I should be back somewhere between five and seven days. You've got half a tank of gas?"

"Yeah, and the fifteen dollars you gave me for more groceries if we need them. The rent's paid up for two weeks, right?" Dean asked, hiding his distaste of their current accommodations as well as he could.

"Ten days," John said with a grimace. He hadn't had enough for the full two weeks and still have enough gas money to get him to Jonas' and, just in case something went wrong, back again. He'd even had to use the "sock" money, the emergency funds they usually kept on hand, just to pay the rent and get the needed groceries. "But I'll be back before the ten days with enough cash to get us through to the end of the school year." Somehow he'd make damned sure it wasn't here, but he didn't dare get their hopes up if he just couldn't swing it. He reassured himself that he'd find a way to make it happen. If he had to, as much as it hurt his pride, he would ask Mac for another loan. Hell, he'd trample his pride into the ground if it meant keeping his boys protected.

"We know you will, Dad," Dean said, trying to sound confident. He looked down at his pouting brother and tousled his already unruly brown hair.

"Stop it!" Sam smacked at his hand and jumped out of the chair.

John smiled at the boys, but Dean could see the strain in it. "Be careful you two. Dean, you look after Sammy."

"You know I will, Dad," Dean said and pulled his brother into a headlock. Sam punched him in the side and Dean "whuffed" and let him go.

John paused at the door and measured his two sons. Dean had really filled out the past year and was approaching John in height. He wondered briefly if Dean would end up taller than he was and his pride rather hoped not. Dean's soft green eyes, his laugh, his natural agility, and, sometimes, the looks that would cross his face, reminded John more and more of his late wife, Mary. Little Sammy seemed destined to be on the short side, but he'd taken on his winter pudginess which warned John that Sammy would gain a good few inches come summer.

His boys looked positively miserable and he couldn't blame them. The Starliner Motel was probably the worst place, in the worst section of town, they'd ever stayed. Cockroaches and rats were common visitors; he put his boots on just to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night because that first night three cockroaches had died with ugly squishing sounds under the soles of John's bare feet. It made his feet itch just to think about it. The heater functioned most of the time, at least. Only one burner worked on the 1950s era stove and the oven had two settings: on and off, but again, at least it worked. Dean and Sam shared a bed that Sam complained was lumpy and as soft as a board. John was stuck on the putrid-smelling threadbare brown couch that was a good foot too short for him. His back ached every morning when he got up, but it was better than sleeping on the vermin-infested floor.

He'd worked so damned hard to keep the boys in that school system in Ohio. He'd never seen his boys smile as much as they did in that town. When both his boys had gone out for sports and made the teams, he was almost ready to burst with pride. Sam and Dean had a chance to live something akin to a normal life and just be kids. He didn't want them to get comfortable and to settle into that illusory life, but he wanted to give them, even if only briefly, a vacation from the hard life they led. Unfortunately, after a few months, the locals knew him and he couldn't sucker anyone into any game with money as the stakes. Finances had been so bad, though he'd never tell the boys, he'd sold off two of his handguns and an older rifle just so they could stay through Christmas. He'd even tried to pick up a job at a local garage with hopes of staying in that town for the rest of the school year, but the owner had hired someone from town. There hadn't been much in the way of Supernatural activity and he'd argued to himself that they could afford to settle down, at least for a few more months. But affording it was something that they couldn't do, no matter how hard he tried to wrangle money, even with the small odd jobs he could pick up now and again. The last of his money was used up by the end of the holidays and he'd even borrowed a little money from Mac just to get them back on the road and to a place where he could bring in some cash. That hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped, especially after that sorry salt and burn job and the resulting injuries that kept him from scoring cash through his normal means of odd jobs or hustling, and they ended up in wretched Deidersville.

John really felt like crap when Dean's birthday had rolled around, and they couldn't afford to go see Caleb, who was out of the hospital but on strict bed rest while his internal injuries healed. Mac had dropped in unexpectedly and tried to hide his shock at their accommodations. He invited the family out to dinner where he gave Dean a handful of nice presents, and then one very special and expensive present. Reluctantly, John let Dean accept Mac's outrageous birthday gift of two cell phones for the boys, each with accounts paid in advance for a year. When John tried to refuse the gift, Mac had given him a sterner look than he'd ever seen from the man. John Winchester didn't back down from much, but _that_ look he did.

_A few more weeks_, he told himself firmly. _They'll be okay for just a few more weeks._ He took a deep breath, gave his boys a hint of a smile, and left.

The cold air that whirled into the room in their father's wake chilled both Sam and Dean.

"You should have told him," Sam turned and accused.

Dean shrugged and gave his brother a shove. "Ah, they just talk big."

"Dean," Sam said worriedly, folding his arms across his chest, "they're gang members. There are a lot of them." His brown eyes were full of fear for his big brother. He'd seen Martin Juarez and his gang. They scared him.

"And I'm smarter than all of them put together," Dean said looking around for his backpack. He refused to let Sammy know the gang worried him, too. Sam was right. This wasn't like the times he'd faced down other bullies. Bullies usually traveled in small groups and were all bluff and bluster. Sock them in the nose once and they'd run home crying to mommy. There were times the bullies didn't back down but they couldn't hold a candle to the fighting skills Dean had honed all his life.

The Dementors were in an entirely different category from others he'd faced. He'd identified at least fifteen gang members at his school and he'd seen how well they could fight. He could (and had) go up against three and still avoid drawing a teacher's attention. Elevate the number to five and Dean suspected he'd be able to take them down without taking too much damage but the result would surely be a phone call to his father. More than five and he figured he'd get his ass kicked and kicked good. Reluctantly, he'd forced himself to not fight back, walking away from encounters with the bruises to prove it. That had seemed to lessen the gang's focus on him, at least some, but it galled him all the same.

"A wolf pack is still a wolf pack," Sam said darkly. They _were_ like wolves. Waiting for their chance to take down Dean when he least expected it. Worse still, Sam knew Dean hadn't made any real friends to help watch his back. That scared Sam more than anything else.

Dean spotted his backpack beside the couch and walked over to it, forcing a laugh. "Stop your worrying, Runt," Dean said. "I'll be fine. You just stay out of Stephen's way this week. We don't need the school calling for Dad because you got in a fight."

Sam snorted. "I'm not the one who keeps getting in fights."

"No, you've been playing punching bag," Dean said and opened his backpack. He pawed through the notebooks, folders, and books. He looked annoyed and scanned the room. His eyebrow lifted as he spotted his green notebook still on the table and he carried the old backpack over to it.

"You're playing punching bag as much as I am," Sam pointed out and made a face at him. "Besides, what am I suppose to do? Stephen's a foot taller than me!"

"You could fight back," Dean suggested as he thunked his pack onto the beat up table and gave his kid brother a smirk.

"You just told me to stay out of fights!" Sam snapped, glaring at his brother.

Dean grinned. "Just don't get caught, Sammy. C'mon, you can take that loser," he poked a finger into Sam's ribs. "We both know it. Hell, on a good day, you take me down and I've got a good foot on you."

"You let me win," Sam groused, scowling and jumping back from Dean's fingers. He was brutal ticklish in his ribs and Dean tormented him with that fact.

"I wish," Dean murmured.

Sam's gaze shot to him. "You don't let me win?" he asked doubtfully.

"Sure I do, Sam," Dean said easily. He turned from his brother and grinned to himself as he scooped up the green notebook and stuffed it down into his pack. He didn't want Sammy getting cocky, but a little confidence, that he could use. He sighed softly as he looked into the backpack and the half-done homework and the books that he'd hardly cracked. Without David there to keep him on the straight and narrow, Dean found himself falling into old habits of not studying or finishing homework, and smarting off to teachers.

"Do you let me win?" Sam demanded, grabbing Dean's shoulder and turning Dean to face him.

"Of course I do. You couldn't take me in a million years," Dean scoffed.

"You aren't letting me win!" Sam said, his face lighting up.

"Dream on, little brother," Dean said. "Now get your books. We're gonna be late if we don't get a move on. Your lunch is on the counter. And here's fifty cents for an ice cream from the cafeteria." Dean held out two quarters.

Sam's eyes widened. "We need that for groceries."

"Dad stocked us up pretty good. We shouldn't need much but some bread, few cans of ravioli or soup and maybe some more peanut butter. Besides, I've got a little extra cash I liberated from someone at school. Take it." Dean shoved the coins into his brother's hand and wrapped Sam's fingers around them. "C'mon. Mondays suck. Nothing like an ice cream sandwich to help you make it through the day."

Sam held the quarters tightly and beamed at his brother. "Thanks, Dean." He loved ice cream and hadn't gotten any since Dean's birthday.

"Yeah, yeah. Get your shit, kiddo. We need to roll."

———————————————————————————————————

TBC.

See Ridley's wonderful story "Sorry" for the details on the job that went south on Caleb's birthday. I'll admit Dragonfly doesn't fully mesh (though I tried to make it fit) with hers as in her story John is adamant that Sam and Dean are not part of the "normal" world like Caleb tends to be. I would like to think that if John found a little town where his boys had a bit of real happiness, he'd let them have that small vacation. His lack of money, his guilt at not being able to keep the boys there, and maybe even guilt for letting the boys touch that world and then rip it way from them, might indeed provoke him into being an ass to Dean and Caleb with regards to that salt and burn in "Sorry." Although this story is not part of the official Brotherhood timeline, I've tried to fit it into that timeline all the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. **__**The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom.**___

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter. _

**Rating: M. Warning.** Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

———————————————————————————————————

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 3**

_Last thing I remember  
I was running for the door  
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before  
Relax said the nightman  
We are programmed to receive  
You can check out any time you like  
But you can never leave_

_--Hotel California, Eagles_

**Now:**

_May 14__th__, Louisville, Kentucky_

Dean felt a painful, iron grip on his recently broken arm.

"No!" he screamed in frustration as his body slammed back against the concrete wall. "Let me go!" He swung at his savior with his free hand as he kicked frantically, trying to loosen that crushing grip.

"Easy," Officer Darling said, feeling like he had a tiger by the tail as he struggled to hold on to the young man. His partner, Pongo, leaned over the wall and after two misses, caught hold of the young man's other arm. Wailing in frustration, the young man kicked harder, trying to loosen their hold. Darling gave a nod to Pongo and both men heaved and dragged the young man over the concrete wall. They heard his groan as the rough concrete dug into his back.

The two officers flipped Dean face down on the cold pavement, pulled his arms behind him, and he felt the cold metal of the handcuffs tighten on his wrists. His breath caught. Handcuffs…they'd handcuffed him in the warehouse, too. Laying on the cold pavement, he squeezed his eyes shut against the memories. He trembled, waiting for the fists to begin pummeling his back, the stripping of his clothes, the blindfold …and the more terrible things that followed. _No, these are police officers,_ he told himself. _They'll help me. They won't do those…things to me. Right? They're cops. _ He opened his eyes and stared at the grey road. He couldn't help it. He began to laugh. His hysterical laughter rang oddly against the pavement as he realized that _the last resort_ had caught hold of him as he tried to end his life. The officers took hold of his biceps and lifted him to his feet. His manic laughter continued.

"Let's just walk nice and easy, okay, son?" Darling said as he gripped the youth's right biceps. The young man's back was scraped to hell and his already torn t-shirt was all but shredded. "We'll get you someplace nice, safe, and warm."

Pongo gripped the teen's left biceps in an equally tight hold. The youth was still in the fits of laughter of someone deeply disturbed. "You're going to be okay. Really. Things will get better," Pongo said encouragingly.

The hysterical laughter faded from Dean's throat as he hung his head in defeat. He'd lost. They'd won. If their world was his damnation, then he'd at least beg for something to make his existence a little more bearable.

"I'd like some coffee," Dean asked softly, the cold wind still nipping at him as he dragged his feet. He began to shiver under their hold, but this time is was the cold, not the memories that brought it on. Frostbite, he was certain, couldn't be far away for as cold as he felt. "Could I get some hot coffee? I'm cold. And maybe some peanut M&Ms?" He looked between the two officers with hope-filled eyes.

Pleased the young man seemed to have calmed down and found his way back to the world of reality, Darling gave him a kind smile. "I like M&Ms too," he said as they led the young man toward the end of the bridge and the waiting ambulance. "I'll tell you what," Darling bargained, "how about you tell me your name and I'll get you some nice, hot coffee when we get to the hospital—"

"No. No hospital." Dean's voice was suddenly rife with panic; his shoes scraped ineffectively on the road as he tried to stop the advance toward the red ambulance and its waiting gurney. "Please, just take me to the station. I won't cause any problems. I promise I won't if you'll just take me to the station." He thought he'd be safe, at least for a little while, from their restraints and needles. He thought he'd be taken to the police station and locked in one of their cells. He thought he'd have a little time yet. Just a little time. Maybe to write a final letter to his brother and try to explain, to tell Sammy how desperately sorry he was. Given a few days, when they finally figured out who he was, the transfer to the hospital would take place. John wouldn't bother to come of course; he'd obviously already written off his eldest son. Once at the hospital, Dean would bury his soul deeply within himself and away from the world. He could let the dark swallow him then and let the drugs destroy what little was left of him. It wouldn't matter anymore.

Darling and Pongo struggled to keep hold of the young man. "I'm sorry," Darling said apologetically as both officers gripped the teen tighter and pulled him forward step by slow step. The teen looked on the scrawny side, but had more strength than either officer expected and it took all their effort to move him. "You just tried to jump off a bridge. You need to go to a hospital."

"I'm not crazy," Dean insisted, panic threading his words. _Just a little time. Please just give me a little time._ "I'm just…I'm just …lost." His voice cracked at the end as a sob tried to escape him. _Not lost. Left behind. Forgotten._

Darling and Pongo exchanged looks. "We can take you to a place that helps lost people find their way," Darling said. "You need to tell me though, have you been taking drugs?"

The hysterical laughter try to bubble its way out of Dean again. "They were giving me something. Painkillers I guess, but two weeks ago I ran out." He hadn't run out. He'd simply run. He'd run until his gasps heaved his chest, until his heart pounded furiously, until the stitch in his side doubled him over. Taking refuge under an overpass, he waited until he'd caught his breath then he'd moved on, jumping from city bus to city bus, then hitch-hiking across town. He stayed in the shadows during the days and holed up in a new place every night. Tonight, after he woke screaming from his nightmares again, it finally hurt too much inside him and he just wanted the pain, the terror, and the voices to go away. The bridge offered resolution. It offered him a way out.

"Nothing else? No other drugs?" Darling asked the youth, looking at the crook of the young man's elbow. There were no needle marks. A less obvious addiction to crack, cocaine, or pills would only be revealed after the urine and blood tests at the hospital. Darling's own past reared its head and he hoped the teen wasn't an addict. This one he could maybe save.

"No," Dean said. Bitterness colored his words as he added, "the only way I'd take anything is if you stuck a needle in my arm." He shuddered as the memories assaulted him, recalling the euphoria that had fogged his already pain-smeared thoughts. He never wanted to experience that horrible euphoria again. _When you come down from those drugs, it'll hurt like hell,_ the snide voice told him.

"How about a name?" Darling asked as he and Pongo tugged the young man forward.

Dean hung back as best he could, but the combined strength of the two men forced him toward the waiting ambulance. They weren't going to give him his few days. _Fine. Then I'll get what I can. _"How about some coffee?" the teenager countered.

"C'mon, give me a name," Darling said patiently.

"Mickey Mouse. How's that for a name?" Dean snapped. He might end up at the hospital, but he'd be damned if he'd make it easy on them. Maybe it would buy him his little bit of time. Maybe it would buy him some paper and a pencil to write to Sammy. Should he write to Caleb? Guiltily, he decided he should. If the situations were reversed, he'd be pissed as hell at Caleb for not saying goodbye.

"Kid…" Darling said, his frustration beginning to get the better of him. He looked over at Pongo who was trying very hard not to laugh at the exasperation he saw on his partner's face. Darling glared at him.

"Coffee," Dean said stubbornly.

"Pete," Pongo said to his partner, and jerked his chin toward a fellow police officer near by.

Darling's gaze went to where Pongo had indicated. "Good call, Mike," Darling said. "Hey, Wampler," he called to the officer standing beside a police car, drinking a cup of McDonald's coffee. "C'm'ere."

Wampler, a sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties began to set his coffee on the roof of the police car when he heard Darling say, "No, bring the coffee."

Wampler sighed to himself. With Darling and Pongo, they were as likely to play a prank as they were to come up with a hell of a strategy to catch some criminal. Obviously what ever they were up to with this jumper, he was going to lose his fresh cup of coffee to it. He walked across the short distance to the threesome.

"Give me your coffee," Darling said.

"But—" Wampler protested, hating that he was right.

"C'mon, Tim, hand it over."

Reluctantly, Wampler handed it to Darling. "You owe me a cup, Pete," he growled.

"So bill me."

The officer held the coffee up to Dean's lips and Dean, after smelling it to make sure it was really coffee, took a careful sip. It had cream and sugar in it, but Dean didn't care. It was hot coffee and it tasted great. The hot liquid seemed to help warm his chilled body. He'd taken a few more sips when Darling pulled the cup away.

"You promised me a name," Darling said.

Dean looked the cup longingly. "I didn't promise anything, but okay, if you promise me M&Ms at the station." He wasn't sure what name he'd give up yet. He couldn't use Mathew, his middle name. That was too obvious. Maybe Caleb? He chuckled privately. Yeah. Caleb Athewm. He grinned to himself. Let them try to figure that one out. He refocused on the coffee cup, ready for his next sip of java.

"Hospital," Darling corrected patiently.

Dean cringed, interest in the coffee gone as he tried to draw back. "Please," he begged softly. "Please, I don't want to go to the hospital. _Please!_" If only he could convince them to take him to the station. "I'll do…" he choked on his words then finished softly as he looked into Darling's eyes, "anything. I'll give you anything. I'll be whatever you want me to be, for as long as you want."

Darling frowned at the young man's words, trying to make sense of them. He and Pongo passed confused looks. The youth's green eyes begged for Darling to accept the offer.

"I'm sorry," Darling said sincerely, his grip tightening on the teen. The young man seemed truly terrified of being carted off to the hospital. As realization dawned, Darling's stomach churned suddenly and he had a terrible feeling he knew what the teen's words meant. What abuse had the young man suffered for him to make such an offer?

"You have to go to the hospital," Darling said, the big brother in him wishing he could console the lost teen. "You'll be safe. I won't let anything happen to you."

Dean's head hung in defeat. It hadn't worked before either, that promise to do anything. He had done it and it hadn't made any difference. He'd begged to die then, too. But here, like at the warehouse, that wasn't an option available to him. What choice did he have but to give up and accept the only future they offered him? The same mistake wouldn't be made twice and they'd make sure he couldn't escape. Only the safe haven of his private world was available to him; his life as he knew it was over. With that realization, Dean's knees suddenly gave.

"Crap," Pongo cursed and Darling echoed him as Darling dropped the cup of coffee and both officers struggled to keep the teen on his feet. Wampler stepped forward, ready to help.

"No," Dean said softly. If they wouldn't give him his time to write his goodbyes, then there was no reason to stay. He'd choose his fate, not them. He would take himself out of this world permanently instead of slowly wasting away in a padded cell. "No!" he shouted at them. Wrenching away, he rolled to his feet and began to run. The side of the bridge beckoned and he pumped his legs faster. At least with his hands cuffed, he knew it'd be that much harder for his survival instinct to save him. His pain, like himself, would drown in the waters below.

Dean felt strong arms wrap around his waist and the weight of someone slam into him. Falling to the ground hard, his knees smashed into the pavement and his shoulder and the side of his face scraped concrete.

"God dammit, kid," Darling growled. Pongo came to Darling's aid and they pulled the teen back to his feet. The young man struggled against their hold, kicking at the back of Pongo's knee to try to bring him down. Pongo stumbled, his own knee smacking hard into the pavement, but kept hold of the teen.

Sliding his arm through the crook of the teen's elbows, Darling wrenched them tightly, compelling the young man to lean forward, keeping him off balance. Darling saw that the young man's back had grown bloodier. "Kid, you can't win this fight. Now calm your ass down. You're not going off this bridge tonight. Not on my watch."

They wouldn't even grant him the dignity of choosing. _Dad would be disappointed I couldn't outrun this bastard, but he's been disappointed in me since the warehouse. Not that I can blame him._ Grimacing against the burning in his shoulders, Dean said, "Okay, okay. I got it. I give. Ease up."

"You're going to the hospital," Darling said emphatically, not easing his hold on the teen.

"Yeah. Fine. Whatever," Dean snarled, trying unsuccessfully to pull away from the officer's hold. He gasped when Darling's hold tightened. "All right! I'll stop fighting. Just ease up." Dean did as he promised and stopped struggling. He wondered if it would help at all. His captor would just continue to tighten his hold until both of Dean's shoulders were dislocated. Isn't that the way it went? Hurt him until he screamed, then hurt him a little more?

Seeing the youth had settled down, Darling loosened his hold fractionally, but not enough to allow the teen to regain any leverage. "Better?"

Dean blinked, trying to sort out his memories from the present. _A cop,_ he reminded himself. _ This guy's a cop. He's not one of__** them**__._ The cop's hold had loosened some but his shoulders still burned. "Would you ease up more if I said it wasn't better?"

The teen had balls, Darling thought as he bit back a laugh. "Not a chance, 'Taz,'" Darling said. He looked over at Pongo. "Have 'em come here. I don't want to try to walk him to them. He's too determined and I don't know that I can hold onto him if I try to get him to the ambulance."

"Will do," Pongo said and called the dispatcher, making the request. He saw the ambulance crew move forward a few moments later.

"Taz?" Dean asked with a scowl. He resisted the urge to attempt to pull free, trying to batten down his terror at felling so helpless. Especially at being forced to lean forward. _He's a cop. He's a cop,_ Dean repeated to himself, making himself stay in the now. He still waited for that _sound_ that would prove to him he was wrong. That he'd never left the warehouse at all.

"Yeah. I think you have a bit of Tasmanian Devil in you, kid," Darling said. Holding the teen had grown easier since the teen had calmed down, but it was still a strain and no matter how good of shape Darling was in, he knew he'd feel it tomorrow.

Dean found Darling's words funny and he diverted his terror into laughter. "Well, my dad was a devil dog. Yeah. I kinda like that. Call me 'Taz.'"

A small bit of information to file away, Darling thought as he asked, "So your dad was in the marines, huh?" Darling couldn't help but wonder if the ex-marine had abused the teen. It was usually family or a close friend that did such heinous acts.

"Yeah," Dean said. He missed the pride he'd always seen in his father's eyes when Dean did well in the field. He knew he'd never see anything but disappointment in those brown eyes again.

As the ambulance crew drew closer, Dean saw the light brown leather restraining straps already laid out and waiting for him on the cot. "You don't need those," he said, trying to back pedal. Dean didn't care how much it hurt. "You're not going to tie me down! You're not going to give me drugs! No!" Struggling to break free, he tried to kick the cop but he couldn't without losing what little balance he had. He wasn't going to go down on the pavement where they could kick him and hit him. He refused to give them that chance.

"Kid!" Darling said, fighting to hold on to Taz as he tried to keep his balance. He tightened his hold and heard the kid groan in pain. "Calm down, Taz. Calm down," he soothed and shook his head at his partner and the medics. Taz was scared out of his mind and having a bunch of people rush him wouldn't help the situation. "Taz, take a deep breath and calm down, you hear me, kid?"

Dean's breath came in ragged gasps as his shoulders screamed agony. "Please don't hurt me anymore," he begged. "Please don't hurt me. Please, don't. Please don't. I'll do whatever you want. Just please don't hurt me anymore."

The teen was lost in his memories again, Darling knew. He eased his hold. "I want you to calm down. Can you do that?" Darling said.

Dean stopped struggling instantly. He didn't want hurt. He couldn't take being hurt anymore.

Darling felt Taz shaking almost violently and heard his soft sobs as he ceased fighting him.

"Taz," Darling said, "do you hear me?"

Dean didn't say anything.

"Kid, answer me."

Dean whimpered. "I hear you," he whispered.

"Taz, do you know you're on a bridge that you tried to jump from? I helped stop you. I'm a police officer." Darling said.

"A cop?" Dean asked, confused. "You're a cop?" he whispered.

"That's right. I kept you from walking off the bridge. Do you remember that?"

The old memories slid away as the memories of the past few minutes rushed back into him. Dean drew in a long breath. He was on the bridge. "Yeah. Yeah, I know where I am."

"We've got to put you in the restraints." Darling felt the teen shudder. "If you weren't so determined to get away, we might have let you go without them. Your freak-factor is a little too high. I'm sorry."

"You would have used them anyway," Dean snapped and once again fought to pull away. "Don't fucking lie to me." He could see the cot and the restraints just in front of him. They were going to restrain him. They were god-damned going to restrain him!

Darling cursed and tightened his hold. Taz was right. Unless the teen had docilely climbed down from the wall and come to them, the restraints were a must. "You just tried to jump off the bridge. What do you expect?" Darling said. He dreaded trying to get this struggling teen into the straps. If any of them came away without bruises, he'd be surprised.

Dean sagged in the officer's arms. He knew there was nothing he could say. Although he understood they had to do it, that didn't make him feel any less afraid. "I get it, but don't lie to me again."

It was a fair request from the teen, but Darling wouldn't give it to him for free. "You stay straight with me and I'll do the same with you, Taz. Deal?"

As he sighed softly, Dean nodded miserably. "Deal. I'll…I'll cooperate. Please, Dude, ease up on my shoulders. They already hurt from when you yanked me back from my swan dive."

Darling wasn't surprised Taz's shoulder hurt. That had been one hell of a jolt to both of them. He loosened his hold enough to take most of the tension off the young man's shoulders, but still kept his arms wrenched so the teen was off balance. "Okay, I've eased up. Now it's your turn to play nice."

Dean snorted. "I told you I'd cooperate."

"And you're going to have to prove yourself a little on that, kiddo."

Scowling, Dean said. "I keep my promises." But he didn't. He knew he didn't. He'd promised his dad to watch out for Sammy. He'd promised Sammy he wouldn't try to kill himself again. He used to keep his promises. They used to mean a lot to him. He'd try this time. He'd really try to keep it. If he could just stay in the present instead of slipping into the past.

"And you didn't _promise_ me you'd cooperate. The nicer you play, the nicer we play. Got it?"

"I got it," Dean said. "I _promise_ I'll cooperate. Happy now?"

"We'll see."

Darling gave a nod to his partner and Pongo cautiously leaned down and wrapped his arms tightly around Taz's knees. Fully expecting the teen to start struggling and kicking, he was surprised when the boy stayed docile. Lifting him, they set him on the cot.

When they lifted him, Dean inhaled sharply when a goodly portion of his weight shifted to his already sore shoulders. Dean could tell that the officer holding him was off balance, trying to keep Dean's arms wrenched back, and he knew this was his chance to escape. A kick to the other officer's face and to the pretty blonde medic, a knee to the medic guy on his left, and a full shift of his weight would pull the cop holding his arms onto the cot and he'd almost assuredly lose his hold on Dean. Dean still had the cuffs on his wrists but he could run, maybe still jump into the water below. _ I said I'd cooperate,_ Dean told himself, then finished his thought with the obvious, _and I'm an idiot for passing up this last chance. But I promised._ For a moment he tensed, still considering, then relaxed, defeat coloring his face as he shut his eyes against the inevitable. _At least I'll be warm and fed,_ he tried to reassure himself. _They'll dope me up, find Dad, and he'll tell them to take me back to__** that**__ place. Maybe they'll give me enough drugs I just won't care. As if that would be any different from now._

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Dean's private joke at choosing the last name "Athewm" comes from Ridley's "In the Company of Dragons" story.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

This disclaimer will prefix every chapter.

**Rating: M.** Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 4**

_When I was a young girl I used to dream of a lover  
__To be my shining knight of strength one day  
__He'd carry me to a castle in the heavens  
__And battle all my dragons on the way  
__And he'd ride down on a great white horse  
__He'd bring me love I was longing for  
__He'd bring me charm and lasting peace  
__On a great white horse, he'd ride away with me_

—_Great White Horse, Buck Owens_

**Then:  
**_March 17__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Dean finished eating his meager lunch of a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich and an apple; he missed being able to afford bags of chips but Dad always made them get fruit before junk food. He was so sick of PB&Js he thought he'd puke. What he wouldn't give for a good ham or roast beef sandwich. He really hoped Dad's hunt would bring in enough cash that they could at least afford to have two sandwiches for lunch instead of just one. David's family had spoiled him with what seemed like an unending supply of food. The way things were going now, he figured he'd be hungry for the rest of his life. Of course, any bit of extra food they had he always saw that Sammy got. Better that Dean was hungry than his kid brother.

He was grateful as hell that it was Thursday. One more day and they'd have a respite from their crappy schools. He'd have to find something for him and Sammy to do to keep Sam's mind off of the shit situation they were in. Maybe they could drive part way into town, then walk to one of the museums. They really couldn't afford the bus though they could probably slip onto one of the subways for free if they played their cards right. Sam would love a day at a museum. Most museums cost money too, but again, they could probably slip in for free. Sammy's soulful eyes could get them in when they "returned from the car and discovered we didn't have our ticket stubs. Please Lady, Mom and Dad are inside and we'll get in so much trouble…" Dean chuckled. Sammy's dewy eyes made damned near anyone easy pickings.

Dean paused when heard a ruckus in the hall ahead. _Probably another fight,_ he thought with disgust and hoped he could slip by unaccosted. When he got closer, he saw Juarez slam a girl into the graffiti-covered grey lockers. Her books scattered. One of Juarez's gang, Gonzales, a kid with a set of wicked scars on his face, grabbed her books and papers and threw them into the trashcan in the nearest classroom. As a final insult, Gonzales poured a half-finished can of Mountain Dew on top of them, a smug look on his face. Juarez had Isabelle pressed up against a locker. Blood ran from her nose and tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. When Juarez slid his hand down the back of her skirt and she sobbed, Dean's fury erupted. He pushed his way through the snickering onlookers. Dropping his backpack as he strode forward, he grabbed Juarez's shoulder and, spinning Juarez to face him, punched the leader of the Dementors in the face as hard as he could.

"Get your fucking hands off her," Dean snarled as Juarez stumbled back.

Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Gonzales rushing him. Sidestepping him, Dean cold-cocked him with his left fist. A third gang member, Kase, swung on Dean. Dean ducked and swept Kase's legs out from under him. Falling onto his back, Kase 'whuffed' loudly, the air knocked from his lungs. Juarez had cleared his head and came at Dean, landing a solid blow to Dean's face. Dean returned the favor, feeling a slight crack under his knuckles. He grinned to himself. He'd bet anything he just broke Juarez's nose. Blood poured from Juarez's nose as he stumbled back again.

Dean heard the click-clack of a butterfly knife and spun toward the sound. Gonzales started forward with the blade but Dean grabbed the meat of Gonzales's thumb and gave a twist. The knife clattered to the tiled floor as Dean pulled him into an arm lock and punched him three times in the kidneys. Gonzales arched his back from the pain and groaned. Shoving Gonzales away from him, Dean turned; Juarez was ready to plant a knife in his back. In a single fluid movement, Dean deflected the blade, grabbed Juarez's arm, landed another punch upside his jaw, and wrenched and twisted Juarez's arm. The ivory handled blade slipped from Juarez's fingers. Dean twisted Juarez's arm, intent on breaking it, but Kase came at Dean and Dean was forced to dodge his attack and shoved Juarez into him. When Juarez turned back to Dean, Dean kneed Juarez in the groin hard enough to put him on the ground. Gonzales came at him again; sidestepping his attack Dean and threw out his arm, catching Gonzales in the throat and putting him on the ground. Kase charged. Dean spun out of his way slammed the heel of his palm into Kase's back; Kase smashed into the lockers with a noisy clang. Gonzales stood, ready to rush Dean again.

Smiling grimly as he readied himself, Dean said, "You want more? Come and get it."

Gonzales hesitated and instead grabbed the knives on the floor. Kase had regained his feet and both boys helped Juarez up. The three disappeared down the hall. Dean turned to the girl Juarez had felt up. She was still up against the lockers, shaking. Gently taking her arm and turning her toward him, Dean said, "It's okay. Isabelle, isn't it?"

She nodded mutely. Pulling out his bandana, he wiped the tears from her face and cleaned away the blood running from her nose. He gave her a small smile. "I'm sorry for what he did to you. You okay now?"

She still trembled, her dark eyes staring in to his. Sobbing, she suddenly threw her arms around a surprised Dean and cried against his chest. He held her for a minute then, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders, he guided her out of the hallway of shocked onlookers and into the empty classroom where Gonzales had tossed her books. He took her back into his arms and ran his hand down her long, dark hair.

"It's okay, Isabelle," he soothed. He held her until she finally stopped crying. Pulling her away from him, he gave her another smile. "You better?" he asked as he wiped her fresh tears away from her red-rimmed eyes. He offered her his bandana; it was spotted red from where he'd used it on her bloody nose. She took it and blew her nose, some more blood appearing. He studied her bruised cheek. "Ah, that probably feels a lot worse than it's going to look. I bet that bruise'll be all but gone by Monday."

"You shouldn't have interfered," she said softly. "He'll come after you."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that'd be something new and different. I think I pissed him off the first day I got here but it beats the hell out of me what I did." His voice softened. "Why don't we get your stuff out of the trashcan? Maybe you can get them rinsed off in the bathroom and they'll be something approaching salvageable."

Isabelle stared into his handsome face. A light stubble peppered his jawline, suggesting he hadn't shaved this morning, and a slight dark ring was beginning to form around Dean's left eye. She could see faint scars on his face and wondered if he'd been in a gang wherever he'd come from. He could certainly fight well enough when he chose to; she didn't understand the blows she'd seen him take in the past weeks. If he could fight as well as she'd just seen, why did he pretend he couldn't?

She furrowed her brow. "You don't want anything from me?"

Dean gave her a shrug. "Ah, just say thanks. That's enough."

She touched his face, her fingers tracing some of his old scars. "Thank you for being my hero, Dean."

"You know my name?" Dean said, a little surprised. He'd been trying to keep a low profile but with the Dementors always on his ass, he guessed more people knew who he was than he'd have liked.

Her smile was genuine as she said, "There are only a handful of white boys in this school and you're the new kid. Everyone knows who you are."

"Yeah, I guess you have point." Dean grimaced.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on his lips. "Thank you."

Looking a little embarrassed, Dean said, "Just all in a day's work."

She ran her hand over his chest, surprised to find hard muscle under her touch. They way he dressed hid the solid frame beneath his layered, hand-me-down clothes. "If you—if you'd like to get together sometime…" she said softly, her hand running down his side, her offer obvious as her fingers drifted toward the button on his jeans.

Dean could see her discomfort at the offer. He put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face towards his. "Isabelle, I didn't step in because I wanted in your skirt. I stepped in because it was obvious you didn't want Juarez in yours. And it's a sign of cowardice to be smacking a girl around. Now let's get you and your books to a restroom before the books get anymore soaked." He leaned down and kissed her on her unbruised cheek. "You don't owe me anything, okay?"

Her relieved smile made her face that much prettier. Dean picked up the trashcan, stopped and grabbed his book bag from where it still lay in the hall, and led her down to the bathroom. People got out of Dean's way as he and Isabelle walked, but whispers followed after them. _Way to keep a low profile, Dean._ He sighed to himself. _And way to __**really**__ piss off the leader of the meanest fucking gang around. If he wasn't out to get you before, he will be now._ He stopped outside the girl's bathroom and handed her the trashcan. "You want me to stand guard out here, or will you be okay?"

"You'd better go before Martin comes back," Isabelle said and clutched the trashcan to her chest. Worry colored her face.

"I can hold my own, believe me," Dean said and gave her a wink.

Like every day this week, Dean bailed on his last class so he could get to his car unaccosted by Juarez and his gang. It was only history and hell, he knew more than the teacher seemed to. Not to mention he'd already covered this part of American history at his previous school (man, he missed that school) and, with Sam's help on the last paper, he was carrying a B in the class without hardly trying. He figured after Isabelle's rescue, avoiding the Dementors would be even trickier and skipping the last class that much more necessary. They were definitely going to want a piece of him. Seventh period was next and it was time to run for his car. He slipped a mirror out and checked the hallway. "Crap," he muttered, spying six Dementors waiting for him.

The math teacher, Mr. Frakes, watched the Winchester boy hang back as the other students filed out. The young man didn't seem to pay particular attention during class, but he usually turned in his homework. Mr. Frakes wished more of his class did even that much. Dean always completed his exams, though a couple of times his answers had made Mr. Frakes chuckle. "No freaking idea, Teach" appeared now and again as one of Dean's answers. Mr. Frakes made it a point to show Dean how to solve the problems he was clueless about and Dean seemed to appreciate it, and more importantly, he learned it. Again, a rarity among students. Today, Dean looked worried and extracted something from his backpack. He saw Dean tense as he muttered what Mr. Frakes suspected was a curse.

"Is there a problem, Dean?" Mr. Frakes asked of the boy loitering just inside the door.

"Uh, sorta," Dean admitted, continuing to watch the gang in the small mirror he held in his fingers. He figured he maybe had two minutes before they stopped waiting and came in after him. "I sorta pissed off the Dementors earlier today. Full-on-I'm-screwed, freaking pissed them off."

"Not the wisest move in this school," Mr. Frakes said with a grim nod. "I take it they're waiting for you?"

"Yeah. If they come in looking for me, would you tell 'em I went to the restroom and didn't come back or something?"

"And do you intend to magically disappear? There's no place to hide in here that they wouldn't find you," Mr. Frakes said worriedly. He scowled, a sigh whispering through his lips. It was days like these that he wondered why he didn't get the hell out of such a frightful school. He kept a gun in the desk, for God's sake. What kind of school was that to work in? "I can call the police," he offered and reached for his phone.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that'll help. Nah, I got my own way out." He grinned, slipped the mirror back in its hard case, and headed to the window. He twisted the latch and pushed the window open.

"We're on the third floor," Mr. Frakes said, moving to stop him.

"Don't sweat it, Teach, I've jumped from this high before. It's all in the landing. Besides, it's jump or get jumped, and I much prefer mine to their's. See ya tomorrow, Mr. Frakes," he said as he tossed his book bag out the window, stepped carefully out onto the ledge, readied himself, and dropped to the ground. Grabbing his book bag, he sprinted to his car.

Dean tried to ignore the new scratches on the car as he quickly unlocked and opened the door. He slid behind the wheel, slapped down the lock, and fastened his seat belt. _Ah, those scratches don't matter. She's a beat up rust bucket, anyhow,_ he told himself but slammed his palm against the steering wheel. _Yeah, but damn it, she's mine. Bastards just had to add more scratches to her. Well, at least I know what I'm doing part of this weekend. I hope I have some sandpaper and primer left. With all the salt on the road from the snow, it won't take any time at all for another batch of rust to get a foothold._

Dean forced himself to think about his plans for the car instead of the new damage inflicted on her. While they were at Bobby's for part of the summer, Dean was going to try to salvage her with some intense bodywork and see if he could find a bench seat in Bobby's junkyard that fit and didn't have yellow foam poking out of broken seams. Pontiac hadn't made many coupes that year and with some work, the sleek lines of the GTO could be restored and it would be a car Dean would be proud to sit behind the wheel of. Of course, that was providing his father didn't need to use the car and Dean had a chance to work on her.

He shoved the key into the ignition as he contemplated her rebuild. The car's engine turned over immediately, rumbling to life. He carefully revved the engine, letting her have a minute to warm up. She always had a solid growl that promised speed if he needed it, but he didn't want to rev her hard when she was cold if he didn't have to. It was rough on the engine to force it to work before the oil had gotten thrown around a bit. He kept an eye out for the Dementors, ready to kick her out of neutral and into first. After a mere handful of seconds there was a change in the sound of the car's engine as it began to purr, ready to take on the road.

A group of Dementors spotted Dean and took off at a run toward the GTO, but Dean already had it moving before they could get to him. He shot west so they wouldn't know where he was really headed, and then meandered his way over to Sammy's school.

He pulled into his normal parking spot in the middle school's parking lot and cut the engine, relief settling his nerves. Another day of hell over with. Jesus, what was he thinking, rescuing that girl? Tomorrow was going to be murder, trying to keep one step ahead of those bastards. _I couldn't pass by and do nothing,_ Dean thought and decided he'd done the right thing, even if he paid for it. _Dad taught me better than that._

He glanced at his watch. It would be an hour until Sammy's school let out. He pulled one of the car magazines the Ascotts had given him at Christmas out from under the front seat. He'd read it already, but he went through the classifieds and pretended he could afford the classic 1962 red T-bird advertised, or the XK7 1969 blue jaguar. He whistled. Boy, wouldn't those be something to drive? He blew into his hands and rubbed them together to try to warm them as the heat faded from the inside of his car.

A police car pulled up beside him about twenty minutes later and Dean glanced up long enough to give a two-fingered salute to the officer. He and Talbot had become something like friends over the past weeks. He rather hoped Talbot had brought him some coffee today. He wouldn't mind the warm up. He took a second look out the window when he realized it wasn't the black officer he normally chatted with, but a white, middle-aged, dark-haired officer who was probably calling in his plates, since he was holding the radio mike close to his mouth. Dean groaned. He'd gone through this with Talbot the first week. At least he had the paperwork now.

He saw the officer get out of the car and head toward him. Dean cranked the window down, wincing at the blast of cold air in his face. He was already freaking cold.

"Is there a problem Officer…" Dead read the name pinned on the officer's coat as he put both hands on the steering wheel, "Hardell?"

"What's a white boy like you doing in this neighborhood? Let me see your license." Hardell's eyes scanned the inside of the car. He saw a beat up backpack in the rear seat, a car magazine beside the teen, and a bottle of water. He scanned for the tell tale signs of drugs, but he didn't even catch a whiff of stale cigarette smoke coming from the inside of the car. He furrowed his brow. He'd never seen a teen's car as clean as this one and wondered if it was stolen. The black eye the teen was sporting only supported his belief that the kid was trouble with a capital "T."

"Picking up my brother when school lets out," Dean said as he slowly pulled his brown wallet from the inside of his coat and handed over his license. "If you'll let me get something out of my glove box, I can prove it to you."

Hardell glanced over the license then looked back at the teen, his eyes narrowing. "Move slowly," he cautioned Dean as his own hand dropped to his sidearm.

Dean opened the glove box and pulled out a set of folded over papers which he handed to the officer. Hardell opened them; the top sheet was a letter from the principal of Shenedoa Middle School identifying Dean as Sam Winchester's older brother, and that his presence in the parking lot was known. The second sheet of paper was Sam's schedule of classes.

The officer harrumphed and visibly relaxed. "I guess you've had other officers question you being here."

"Yes, sir," Dean said. "Where's Officer Talbot? He usually has this beat this time of day. I was kinda hoping Rob was going to bring me some coffee. I don't know where he gets it, but it's freaking awesome. The shit won't tell me his secret coffee joint."

Hardell's face grew grim. "Rob was shot yesterday."

Dean's eyes widened as his smile disappeared. "Is he…?" he began hesitantly. Damn it, for a cop, Rob was a pretty cool guy. Dean often sat for a few minutes in the front of Rob's police car to warm up. They talked classic cars and Rob had made some good suggestions about how to fix up the GTO. Rob was working on rebuilding an old corvette and Dean had called Bobby and asked him if he could track down some parts for Rob.

"He's in the hospital," Hardell reassured Dean, seeing his distraught look. He vaguely recalled Rob mentioning a kid with a GTO that he chatted with on a regular basis. He handed the teen his license and the papers. He didn't need to call in Dean's driver's license. He knew this had to be the kid Rob talked about.

"He'll be okay?" Dean asked worriedly.

"Yeah. He took a bullet in the shoulder trying to stop a robbery over on Willow. He'll probably be off work for a good six weeks."

Dean put his license back in his wallet then twisted so he could get his book bag. He opened it and pulled out a notebook. He scrawled a quick message on it. He handed it to Hardell. "Give him this when you visit him, huh?"

Hardell looked at the sheet which read, "Hey Shithead, you're supposed to dodge the bullets, not stop them. Who the hell's going to bring me my coffee now? —Dean."

Giving a small laugh, Hardell told him, "I'll see he gets it. He's at St. Agnes. He's allowed visitors."

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Don't want to put the guy into shock. Just give him the note. Dude, look, if you don't have coffee, this open window is freaking freezing me out."

"Hang on." Returning to his patrol car, he opened the passenger's side door, reached in, and grabbed his cup of coffee from the cup holder. He'd filled up his thermos at the gas station. He could drink from that. Turning back to Dean, he handed the teen the cup. "Here. Rob'll give me hell for not taking care of the kid with the GTO."

With a wide grin on his face, Dean said, "Thanks! Black, I hope?"

"Yeah."

Dean took a careful sip of the hot coffee. "Ah, that's great. Same place Rob gets his. Where is that?" Dean asked, his eyebrow lifting.

Hardell gave Dean a smirk. "And give away his secret coffee joint? He'd kill me for that, too. Watch yourself, kid," Hardell said with a wave and got back into his warm car and pulled away.

Dean hastily rolled up the window and put the paperwork back in the glovebox. He zipped his book bag up, put it in the back seat, then turned back to his magazine as he sipped his coffee. Although his family made a habit of avoiding the police, in this section of town it seemed prudent to have a few friends on the force. No one else was going to watch Dean's back. At least if he got himself in a bind, he had a shot at getting some aid from the cops.

Damn, it sucked that Rob had taken a bullet. Hell, maybe he would go visit the cop. _Wouldn't Dad just shit about that?_ he thought with a laugh. Although John respected the police, police were too observant and John's recurring absences might be noticed. Child Protective Services was the last thing they needed right now.

Engrossed in his magazine, he was startled when the dismissal bell clanged. He was surprised to see big, fluffy white flakes drifting down. When had it started snowing? Warmly bundled kids ran across the parking lot to their parents or streamed toward the buses. Dean watched for the short, brown-haired kid in his worn black ski jacket and blue woolen hat.

Dean spotted Sam talking with a teacher and chuckled to himself. Sam loved school, even as frightful as this one was. He wondered what the teachers thought of his little brainiac brother. Sam was a regular little information sponge and if he read it or saw it on TV, he usually remembered it. Dean kind of envied him that talent and wished he were as smart as his brother, but he knew he had talent when it came to weapons and mechanical things that Sammy couldn't hope to emulate. For as long as Dean could remember, he'd been taking things apart, fixing them, and putting them back together. Using broken parts that he'd find in the trash, he'd build stupid little toys, radios, or electronics. Pretty much, unless it was in complete shambles, he could usually get it working or make something new and cool out of it. Sam would roll his eyes whenever Dean presented some new gizmo, but Sam would invariably fiddle with it, tossing it aside hurriedly if he thought his big brother was watching him.

_All right, enough kiddo_, Dean thought and laid on the horn. He was freaking cold and ready to get the car running and get them back to the motel room where they could crank the heat, provided it was working today. Sam looked up and waved and, after saying something to the teacher, he raced across the parking lot to the car. As Sam climbed in, knocking the snow from his shoes, the door creaked loudly. Dean winced. He needed to get some lube on that door.

Sam's bright smile disappeared when he saw Dean's face. "Who gave you the black eye?" His words were accented by puffs of steam from his warm breath and his cheeks were reddened by the chill wind. He brushed the snow from his coat and hat.

"It's nothing, Sam," Dean said, starting the car and putting it in gear. The eye wasn't really swollen but he knew soon a rainbow of colors would circle it. He looked down at the heater and sighed. It'd be a good five or ten minutes before any real warmth blew out of it. In this weather, the engine cooled down fast.

"Martin?" Sam asked, hoping he was wrong as he locked his door.

Dean grinned as he spun the car's wheel and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. "Yeah, but you should see his. I think I broke his nose."

"Damn it, Dean, you've got to stop fighting with him. He's got too many friends. He's a freaking gang leader."

Dean shrugged. "He knocked some girl into a locker, bloodied her nose in the process, threw her books in the trash, and felt her up in the hall right in front of everyone. What was I s'posed to do? Ignore it?"

"You keep trying to be the white knight and someone's going to kill you or your horse," Sam warned as he unhappily re-situated his backpack on the floor and pulled his gloves and hat off. His brother tended to defend the underdog, or at least, take on the bullies. Sam knew it was in Dean's nature to be a hero, but he didn't think before he acted and one of these days it was going to get him into serious trouble. Still, Sam admitted to himself, he was proud of his brother for going to the girl's aid. He couldn't have walked past that and not done something himself. It didn't change the fact that the Dementors were about as dangerous as dangerous got.

"You worry too much," Dean chastised, seeing Sam's concerned look. "Least the teachers didn't catch us," he added as he flicked on the wipers.

"That's all we'd need," Sam muttered. "Dad would have a cow."

"That'd be cool. We'd have some milk for our cereal then," Dean said, giving his little brother a smirk.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I've got to go to the library tomorrow after school. I've got a paper I have to research and the school library stinks. The encyclopedias are ancient, older than Dad, even."

"That old, huh?" Dean said, chuckling to himself. He'd have to remember to tell his father Sammy's concept of ancient.

"Yeah. That's why I need to go to public library. Can you pick me up at six?" Sam asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. He wished Dean would let him do things on his own, but Dean always felt the need to shadow him. It frustrated Sam to no end. He wasn't stupid. He could look out for himself.

"I'll pick you up after school and go with you," Dean said firmly. "It'll be a cold walk and who knows how much snow we'll end up with. Besides, maybe they have a pretty librarian I can flirt with."

Sam sulked. "It's two blocks away from the school, Dean. I think I can walk that okay by myself. Jeremy said there's a warm front coming through, so it won't be that cold tomorrow."

"Bullshit," Dean said. "It's supposed to hit zero tonight and not be any warmer tomorrow than it was today." Dean looked over at his brother. He knew Sam thought he was over-protective of him and Sam was probably right. Even though in this section of town it was probably more than a little idiotic, but Dean had been trying to ease up on Sam the past few months, trying to give Sam a little more independence and freedom. More than once Sam had accused Dean of not trusting him. Dean wished Sammy got it didn't have anything to do with trusting him. He trusted his kid brother with his life. He _didn't_ trust all the assholes and jerks around them. But it _was_ only two blocks, "I don't know, Sammy…"

"I'm not going alone," Sam said with exaggerated patience. "I'll be going there with Tristan and José."

Dean hesitated. Dad would kill him if he found out, but they didn't have to tell Dad. He'd met Tristan and José. They both topped Sammy by a good six inches (like most of Sammy's classmates), and Tristan was a football player type who'd kind of looked out for Sammy now and again. José was just your average kid, but he'd backed Sammy on a few occasions, too, so he scored points in Dean's mind. If Sammy were going alone, he'd have told him 'no way in hell', but with two other locals, Sammy would be okay. "Okay. S'long as you're not walking it alone." He gave a glance at his brother. "You have to pass right by those drug dealers."

"We'll avoid them, if they're even out in the cold. Stop worrying. I _am_ almost thirteen, Dean," Sam pointed out.

Dean bit back his laugh. Sammy had been reminding him of his "upcoming" birthday (it was over two months away yet) since February. It wasn't so much the birthday—birthdays weren't a big thing for Winchester celebrations. Hell, his dad had forgotten his fifteenth birthday. This time was special though because Sammy was finally, officially, going to be a _teenager_. That term had some magical quality to it for any kid.

Fondly, he recalled his own thirteenth birthday. They'd been at Pastor Jim's with his father, Caleb, and Mac, and Pastor Jim made Dean strawberry shortcake. Where he got fresh strawberries in January had always puzzled Dean. Sure, regular strawberries could be found at the store, but these were just like those out of Pastor Jim's strawberry patch. They were big—no, huge—melt-in-your-mouth, sweet-as-sugar, dark red berries. Jim had put a bunch of homemade vanilla-flavored whip cream on top and the shortcake was spongy and golden, and not too sweet. They'd stuck the candles in the whip cream. Caleb had gotten trick candles and Dean blew and blew but they kept relighting. It freaked him out when he thought they were supernatural or something, but everyone laughed, especially Caleb, and Caleb showed him the package. Caleb had already told Sammy and Sammy was all smiles and giggles about it. Maybe he could afford some of those trick candles for Sammy's birthday. It was probably just going to be Hostess cupcakes for a birthday cake, but that was better than nothing. Of course, Sammy liked ice cream the way Dean liked peanut M&Ms. There just wasn't anything better. Maybe he could get an ice cream sundae for Sam and put the candles in that instead of getting him a cake.

Even though he'd blown it off to Sam, his eye was aching worse. He should probably put some ice on it when they got back to the motel. "God, I can't wait until this school year is over and we're out of here." Dean sighed as he pulled up to the red light.

"Me, too," Sam agreed. "Can we have that pizza tonight?"

Dean thought of the dollar frozen pizza they'd splurged on. Sam had begged him for the treat, and even though it was a buck and on the small size, Dean caved. He could have gotten a couple mac and cheese or five Ramen noodles for that—though really, they had plenty of food to last a good five or six days if they were careful—but one night of pizza? Yeah, they'd earned it staying in that beyond crap hotel. They'd have to watch the pizza real close since the oven heated up to like five hundred degrees when it was on. "Yeah. That sounds good. Even if it doesn't have mushrooms on it."

Sam made a face. "You and your fungus."

Dean caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His gaze shifted from his brother to the pipe descending on the passenger's side window.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted as he grabbed Sam's coat collar and pulled Sam toward him. The glass shattered into rubble and the pipe continued in and slammed against the seat back where moments before Sam had been leaning. Dean heard the click-clack of someone trying to open the locked driver's side door. Through the shattered window Dean saw the bruised Kase leering as he pulled back to strike with his pipe again, his gaze focused on Sam. At the same time, Dean heard pounding and the crunch of metal and plastic from the trunk area and a solid "thunk" on the window to his back.

Dean pulled Sam closer to him as his gaze swept around him, quickly sizing up the situation. To Kase's left, the hulking Olo peered in through the back side-window, giving Dean a lecherous grin that made Dean's skin crawl.

"You're ours, Winchester," Olo's baritone called out.

Gonzales stood beside Olo, pulling out his butterfly knife as he leaned toward the right rear tire. By the trunk was the blond Tara, wielding a pipe and smashing it on the trunk. Another girl, Latisha, held a 2 X 4 and was pounding on the brake lights. Hale, lean and muscular, stood beside Dean's window, drawing his arm back for another blow against the driver's side window, brass knuckles glinting on his fingers. Just behind him was Martin Juarez. Juarez's raccooned eyes glimmered with cold fury.

"We're gonna mess you up so bad your bitch momma won't recognize you," Juarez snarled.

There were others whose faces he filed away. As the brass knuckled fist of Hale moved to strike Dean's window again, Dean saw the cross street was empty of traffic and he slammed the gas pedal to the floor as he shifted. The car seemed to crouch low and the 455 engine roared as the wheels of the GTO spun in the snow then grabbed hold and the GTO shot through the intersection. He heard a distant voice scream after him as he quickly ran through the gears, "You're ours tomorrow, gonna take you down!"

As soon as he'd shifted through the gears, he clutched Sam back to him for a good mile before he all but slid into an empty church parking lot. He threw the car into neutral and set the emergency brake. He pushed Sam back a little from him and ran his hands through Sam's hair, knocking pieces of glass to the seat and floorboard. His fingers brushed over Sam's frightened face and knocked away the few glittering shards of glass he saw. After he unzipped Sam's coat, he practically yanked it off his brother as he turned Sam so his back was to him. A few tiny nicks along Sam's neck seeped crimson. Dean brushed the glass off Sam and then fluttered Sam's sweatshirt to free any remaining glass. He turned Sam back to face him and hugged his little brother to him. Sam threw his arms around Dean and buried his face in Dean's shoulder.

"You're okay, Sammy. It's okay," he murmured as he felt his little brother tremble in his arms. Dean swallowed hard, knowing just how close Sam had come to being hurt or even killed. He rubbed Sam's back reassuringly. Sam had been right. He was going to get himself killed or worse, get his little brother killed. He felt his anger and frustration percolate inside him but he knew his dad couldn't do anything about their situation.

_Bullshit,_ he said to himself. _Dad could suck it up and call Mac for some money. His damned pride is going to get us killed._

Dean finally let Sam go and Sam sat back. Dean was proud to see his brother wasn't crying. He was scared as hell, but he wasn't crying. Dean gave him a half smile and reached into the back seat. He unzipped the book bag and yanked out a notebook that he used to scrape over the seat, scattering most of the broken glass to the floor. He gave Sam's coat a final shake and handed it to his little brother. "Put it back on. It's gonna get really cold with that window busted out."

Dean looked around outside. There wasn't anyone nearby. "Stay here, Sammy," Dean ordered gruffly.

He unlocked his door and pushed it open, his gaze watchful for anyone near enough to approach them. Stepping out into the snow, he circled his car. The left tail light covers were smashed and the trunk and side panel on the passenger's side deeply dented. Some edges of the dents were rusted enough that the metal had simply crumbled away. The right rear tire that Gonzales had targeted with his knife was untouched at least. His jaw clenched and he forced back his fury and fear. Stupid of him not to be paying attention. He hadn't noticed the gang as he pulled up to the light and they'd more than gotten the drop on him. He could already imagine his father's rant when John got back from the hunt. But he'd kept Sammy safe and that was really all that mattered.

He climbed back into the car and slammed the door shut, automatically locking it. He revved the engine a little, cranked the heat on full, released the brake and pulled out of the parking lot, car wheels spinning in the snow-covered parking lot. Dean made himself ease up and the tires bit and he pulled out onto the road.

"Dean," Sam started.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snapped.

Sam stared at his brother and realized Dean's hands were gripping the wheel so tightly his bruised knuckles were almost white. Sam swallowed hard. Nothing scared his big brother. He'd seen Dean go face-to-face with a hellhound, a ton of ghosts and poltergeists, and even a spring-heel jack. Dean faced them with confidence and bravery. Well, okay, the hellhound had made a chew toy out of Dean but Dean only made smart cracks about Frankenstein and rawhide treats and kibbles and bits while Sam and his dad sewed him up. Of course, Dean _had_ been on morphine at the time.

Sam was intimidated by most dogs for the next few years but Dean acted as if it never happened. He acted as if he hadn't been picked up and tossed around like a rag doll by the black beast. But now Dean's knuckles were white and his breathing was rapid. Sam could see the pulse in a vein in Dean's neck and could tell that Dean's heart was racing as fast as Sam's own.

Dean looked over at Sam and saw his frightened look. Grinding his teeth, he took a long, deep breath as he slowed the car down. The roads were slick and an accident because of his stupidity would be the fucking capper to the day. He gave Sam a tight smile. "Sorry kiddo. I didn't mean to bite your head off."

"Don't go to school tomorrow, Dean," Sam said, his voice high and frantic as he put his hand on Dean's arm. He squeezed his brother's arm tightly. Dean could fight off a good handful of kids but he'd seen at least ten gang members around the car. Dean was good, but Sam wasn't sure he was that good. He didn't know if even their Dad could face that many and walk away.

Dean glanced over at his kid brother. "We both have to go to school tomorrow."

He saw Sam's protests begin to build. "Hear me out, Sammy. It'll be safer for both of us. It's a sure bet the Dementors know where we live," he said, thinking back to what Isabelle had said about him being one of only a handful of Caucasians in school. "They said they'd come after me tomorrow so it's also a good bet they won't be by tonight. I'll bail about one-thirty, in the middle of class, get our stuff from the room, then head uptown to find us a homeless shelter and see what time it opens.

"There aren't any Dementors at your school," Dean continued. "You go on to school, and then to the library with Tristan and José. You know shelters don't open until close to dark. I'll pick you up, we'll stay at the shelter for the next few nights and hopefully, they won't call social services on us. If I can't get Dad on the phone, I'll leave Dad a message once we know where we're staying. With any luck he'll be back this weekend and we can figure out what to do then."

"Dad's such a damned ass," Sam muttered.

"Sam!" Dean said sternly, "Don't talk about Dad like that. He's doing his best."

"Dean!" Sam's voice was angry. "How many times have you come home from this school with bruises and busted lips and black eyes? How many times have I? We've begged him to get us out of here for a month now. They aren't just kids! They're freaking dangerous."

"And Dad will see just how dangerous they are. He'll have money when he gets back and he'll have to move us or take us to Pastor Jim's. Hell, Sammy, if he doesn't, we'll go ourselves."

"Why can't we go now?" Sam begged.

"Runt, with the extra cash I've squirreled away, I've _probably_ got enough money for gas to get us there, but Dad'll kill us for bailing without him." He could hear the lecture now and really didn't want to hear the rant in real life. "If things go bad, _he_ may not have enough gas to follow us. Look, if Dad's not back by Sunday afternoon, we'll go, okay?"

"I don't care if Dad gives us the lecture from hell and makes us do ten miles in the snow in our fucking shorts and t-shirts, Dean. We need to go and go now!"

"Dude, chill. The roads are going to more than suck tonight with this snow. We're suppose to get close to a foot. We'd just be asking for trouble to try to make the drive."

Sam shook his head, aggravated with Dean's blasé attitude about it all. "We need to leave tonight, Dean," he growled. "I'll drive if you're too much of a pussy to do it."

"Yeah, a twelve year old behind the wheel. That won't attract any attention."

"Dammit, Dean!" Sammy exploded, "it's fucking stupid to stay here, to even think about going to school tomorrow! Rumors say the Dementors have killed people, and what do you do? You break their leader's nose. You think they're going to let you get away with that without some sort of retribution? And they're going to do it tomorrow. You're going to get your ass whaled on, or even killed."

Dean glared at his brother. "We're staying, Sammy'" he ordered, sounding like John in that moment. "We'll bail Sunday if we haven't heard anything from Dad. I'll call Jim Saturday and get him to wire us some cash so we're sure we've got enough to make it there."

Sam slammed the side of his fist against the door. "Yes, sir," he muttered.

"Sam," Dean sighed, "we'll be fine this weekend, well away from the Dementors and their threats. We'll have the shelter at night, and we can keep ourselves occupied during the day by walking the stores or something. Look, after this Dad will probably take us to Pastor Jim's so we can finish out the school year. He told me he's managed to get enough paid to Bobby to get the Impala's engine rebuilt as soon as school's done. Once the car is fixed, things will be all right again."

"Oh. Yea. More crappy hotels. More crappy days while he's off hunting or hustling all summer." Sam folded his arms across his chest and hunkered down in the seat, scowling. He still felt the adrenaline coursing in his body and wanted to scream at his brother or his father or anyone.

"Yeah, so he can have enough money that we can stay in decent schools for at least three months at a time. So we can get some new clothes. So he can pay the rent and put food on the table."

Sam's eyes narrowed as he mocked his brother's tone. "So he can buy more ammo. So he can buy more guns and weapons."

"Sam…" Dean inhaled slowly. Sam was just lashing out because of his fear. Yelling at him wouldn't solve anything, though he wished Dad would get that clue. "Okay, I know, it sucks right now. But c'mon. It'll be better soon. Tomorrow will definitely be our last day at these crappy schools. We'll finish out the school year at Pastor Jim's and maybe Dad can get the Impala rebuilt before summer hits. Dad promised, after the Impala is running again, that we're going down south for a hunt. We'll get to camp on the beach."

"You hate camping, Dean." Sam retorted.

"Yeah, but the ocean is really awesome," Dean said, trying to put a positive spin on it in an attempt to get his little brother to calm down.

"You hate swimming, too."

"You love the ocean. And I don't hate swimming. I'd just rather lie on the beach and look at the girls in their bikinis," he said with a grin. "And that'll be hellacool. Please Sammy. Let's just get home, have our pizza, watch some TV, and pack up for tomorrow. We'll even blow off homework tonight." He shivered as the cold wind whipped through the broken window.

Sam snorted. "You blow off homework every night."

"No I don't, Runt," Dean growled teasingly, relieved Sam had accepted his plan, no matter how reluctantly.

Furious with this brother, Sam didn't respond. He simply stared out the window.

"Man, see if I give you my soda money for ice cream anymore," Dean muttered as he focused on the snow-covered road.


	5. Chapter 5

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Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

This disclaimer will prefix every chapter.

**Rating: M.** Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 5**

_I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind  
__I left my body laying somewhere in the sands of time  
__I watched the world float to the dark side of the moon  
__I feel there is nothing I can do_

_--Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down_

**Now:  
**_May 14__th__, Louisville, Kentucky_

Dean didn't fight as they put his ankles in the restraint straps and fastened them tightly. One of the three cot straps went across just below his knees. The black officer placed a hand in the middle of Dean's chest as the other officer released the painful hold on Dean's arms. After he felt the cuffs come off his wrists, he stiffly shifted his arms from behind his back. Each officer grabbed one of his forearms. He winced, his shoulders aching horribly. The black officer forced Dean to lie back onto the cot and Dean let them fasten his wrists without a fight, as a few tears slid down his face.

_Restrained. Helpless._

Two more straps went across his body and then the medics raised the cot. The female medic lifted the head of the cot a few notches so Dean wasn't completely flat on his back. Being able to see where they were taking him helped a little. Glancing up at her, Dean said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Priscilla said, giving him a reassuring smile and gently patting his arm. The teen flinched away from her touch.

Lying immobile on the cot, Dean noticed the warm blood trickling down the side of his face from where he had slid along the rough pavement. His shoulders still burned, but his right shoulder hurt the worst while his left shoulder only felt road-rashed. His knees throbbed and he felt warm liquid soak one knee of his jeans. The cold wind chilled it quickly. The cot jostled him as the medics rolled it slowly along the road.

"You going to tell me your name now?" Darling asked as he walked beside the cot. He'd have bet a month's wages the kid was going to fight them tooth and nail when they were putting him in the restraints. When lifting Taz, he'd felt the teen tense as if ready to try to struggle, then all the fight went out of him.

"Go. To. Hell." Dean gritted out. _Helpless._

"Well Mr. Hell, you've certainly lived up to your name tonight." Darling said. He looked down at his own stinging knuckles, scraped and bloodied from the pavement. His partner was limping a little from where the teen had tried to take out his knee and his knee had bashed concrete.

Dean stared at the white officer and suddenly laughed. "Somebody has to keep you blue shirts in shape."

_This kid is certifiable, _Darling thought sadly. _He can't be more than sixteen or seventeen. God, what did his abuser do to him to make him like this?_ "Your name?" Darling asked again.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Taz," he retorted.

Darling shook his head. "We had a deal. I'm straight with you, you're straight with me. Now, c'mon kid. What's your name?"

He was at their mercy. What did it matter if he was a pain in their asses or not? He wanted to be left to die, but if all they could offer him were empty words, he'd at least try to get what he wanted at the moment. "Hot coffee and peanut M&Ms. Then you get my name," Dean said determinedly. "And I'm not a kid."

Raking his hand through his short, brown hair, Darling growled, "Then stop acting like one, Taz." The frustration in his voice was clear when he said, "As far as your M&Ms and coffee, I'll see what I can do."

The medics slowly turned the cot 180 degrees and Dean jumped when he felt the front part of the cot lifted slightly onto the back end of the ambulance. The two medics folded up the frame below the cot and slid the cot into the ambulance until it locked in place with a metallic snick. The male medic climbed in and the white officer followed to sit beside him on the brown-cushioned bench. Pulling out a wool blanket, the medic spread it across Dean and gave him a small smile. "Better? Want me to crank the heat?"

Dean didn't answer but instead his gaze went to the officer. "So you get to tag along?"

"'Fraid so, kiddo—Taz. You're not exactly a cooperative patient. No matter what you say."

"Yeah. I guess not," Dean agreed and pulled at the right wrist restraint. There was no slack in it and it hurt his shoulder to even try. That arm ached and he was certain the officer's grip had left bruises and maybe even done some damage. The last reconstructive surgery had only been —was it three?— weeks ago. It probably didn't help that he hadn't kept up his rehab without Sammy there nagging him about it. Survival on the street had been more important than stupid exercises.

Darling watched as Priscilla examined Pongo's knee and gently pressed around the knee cap. Pongo's breath hissed between his teeth when the thumbs of her gloved hands touched the middle of his knee where some swelling had begun.

"It's probably only bruised, but you ought to have a doctor look at it. You might have chipped a bone," she said as she extracted an icepack from the first aid kit and squeezed it until it audibly 'popped'. She kneaded it a few times and when she felt it turn cold, pulled Pongo's pants leg back down and placed the icepack on his knee. "You should try to keep that on ice for a while," she told him. "You want to ride along?"

Pongo looked at his partner. The teen and Darling had already built something of a rapport. It would be best to let Darling stay with the teen. "I'll follow in the car to the hospital," he told her. Darling gave a nod. He and Pongo had worked together for three years; they generally thought alike which is why they worked so well together. He knew exactly why Pongo was letting him ride with the teen. Darling turned back to Taz.

"You going to give Greg here problems while he fixes you up and gets your stats?" Darling asked, indicating the male medic.

Flicking his gaze to the medic and then back to the officer, Dean shook his head as he tested the left restraint. There was no slack in it either. "I guess not. You got them too tight for me to do much," Dean lied. There wasn't any slack but he knew, given some time, could work his hand free. The strap the restraint was attached to had to be tight (and it was), he'd have to dislocate his thumb and hold his hand just right, but he could get his hand free if he really wanted.

"Well, that is the point, Taz," Darling said wryly as he leaned back, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bench. The bench might be cushioned but the cushions were about as soft as steel.

"Yeah," Dean said and turned his head away from the two men to stare in at the medical supplies in a niche of the ambulance. He felt his tears try to restart. He just wanted it over. He wished they'd have let him end it. He wanted her voice, their voices, out of his head. He wanted the nightmares to stop.

"Hey, Taz, is it?" Greg said, "I'm going to clean up your face now, okay?"

Dean ignored him. He could feel the blood soak part of his hair and the sheet around his head where he laid.

"You're bleeding all over my nice, clean ambulance." Greg said, trying gently to tease him. "Let me patch you up, huh?"

Dean finally twisted his head to expose the wounds to the medic. Dean stared at the opposing wall, refusing to meet the medic's eyes.

Greg felt a twinge in his chest. The youth's eyes held no emotion—not anger, not pain, not sadness. Nothing. Greg took some small comfort in that if the teen had really wanted to die, he wouldn't have let Darling get close enough to save him. Greg had been on a suicide call before, but the police hadn't been able to stop the young woman from jumping from the roof of the sixth story building. He wished he could forget the scene of the woman impacting the sidewalk in front of him.

Tearing open a 4 X 4 package of gauze, Greg wetted it with distilled water, and gently wiped away the blood from Taz's face and his blood-soaked hair. After cleaning away the blood, the medic saw the sources of blood were injuries limited to the kid's face and were little more than some cuts and scrapes. When he spotted some grit lodged in the wounds, he pulled out a fresh 4 X 4 and, after wetting it down, he delicately loosened the grit and wiped it away. He glanced at the teen's face, but his look hadn't changed. Taz still stared vacantly at the far wall, steadfastly refusing to look at Greg. Greg pulled out some alcohol wipes and tore two open.

"The alcohol is going to sting, Taz," Greg warned and wiped the small pads over the scrapes. He expected a wince or sharply inhaled breath but, surprisingly, Taz didn't even flinch at his ministrations. Greg bandaged the still seeping scrapes and turned to the teen's knee. He'd seen the blood soaked knee of the jeans as the officers had lifted the teen onto the cot.

"I'm going to take a look at your knee, now, okay?"

Taz didn't answer but turned his gaze from the far wall to the ceiling. Greg folded back the blanket from the teen's leg and pulled his scissors from his belt.

"No!" Taz protested, startling Greg. He hadn't realized the teen had even been watching him. The youth tried to jerk his knee away. "Don't cut my jeans. You hear me? My dad just got them for me. Don't you dare fucking cutting my jeans." Fury lit the boy's face.

"I'm sorry, Taz. I have to," Greg said. This wasn't an uncommon reaction, but usually it was a leather coat, or fancy clothes. Not a pair of filthy jeans.

"Bullshit! Just lift the fucking pants leg. I swear, if you cut my jeans, I'll make your life hell."

"Taz," Darling said, "he needs to get a good look at your knee."

"I don't give a shit!" Dean seethed. "He's not cutting my jeans. You hear me?"

Normally Greg wouldn't hesitate and would simply splay the jeans open with a few snips of his scissors. This young man was fragile and the jeans, for whatever reason, were something special to him. Reluctantly, he relented and was willing to try what the teen had suggested. "Okay, I'll try to pull the jeans up high enough to look at your knee. But it's going to hurt and if I can't get the pants up high enough, I'm using the scissors."

"I don't care if it hurts." The fury left his eyes and shifted to an almost pleading look, begging Greg to understand. "They're new and…" the youth flushed, "we don't get new stuff very often. My dad bought them for me so I'd have something nice to wear," he choked momentarily, "in _there_."

"There?" Greg asked and suddenly felt Darling's hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at Darling who shook his head emphatically then tapped his finger twice on his temple. Greg frowned, then realization struck him. Not surprisingly, the young man had been in a psychiatric hospital. He gave Darling a nod and turned back to Taz. "Well, then let's see if we can't keep these intact, okay?"

After undoing the strap over the teen's legs, Greg carefully worked that pants leg up until he could see the bloody wound. "Doesn't look like it's started to swell, just a good scrape on the concrete." Greg palpated around the knee but Taz didn't flinch other than at Greg's initial touch. "It's going to hurt to bend that knee for a few days, but it looks okay," Greg said as he wetted down another 4 X 4. Carefully, Greg cleaned away the blue fibers caught in the wound then cleaned around the wound with a 4 X 4 soaked with alcohol. He was surprised that once again the teen didn't voice any indication of pain. He knew it had to hurt. While bandaging the wound, his eyes traced the scars visible on the youth's leg. "Dog get a hold of you?" Greg asked.

"Big ass hound from hell," Dean said. "Yeah. A while back. My leg didn't even take the brunt of it."

After bandaging the teen's knee, Greg debated, then tugged the pants leg back down to make the teen more comfortable. Greg would have to note in his report about Taz's reaction to his attempt at cutting his jeans. After pulling the blanket back over the young man's legs, he grabbed the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. The teen tried to draw away from Greg as Greg wrapped the cuff around the young man's arm.

"I'm just getting your blood pressure, Taz," Greg said.

Dean focused on the wall and tried to ignore the touch of the stranger. If he weren't restrained, it would be easier. _Hell,_ Dean thought, _if I weren't restrained, I be out of this ambulance so freaking fast the cop would call me the Road Runner instead of Taz._

Greg took the teen's blood pressure; it was high, but that was to be expected. When he laid his fingers on the teen's wrist to get Taz's pulse he felt Taz try to jerk away from him. As he expected, the teen's heart was racing. He discreetly watched the youth's chest to get his respirations; he was breathing a little fast, but not as fast as Greg anticipated considering the rapid heart beat. Sliding the stethoscope under the dirt-smeared t-shirt, he felt the teen try to shrink away from him.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to listen to your heart and lungs," Greg told him.

The teen's attention had shifted back to the medical cabinet and Greg felt Taz trembling. He could tell the teen's heart was racing even faster and his respirations had increased. When Greg pulled the stethoscope out from beneath Taz's shirt, Taz visibly relaxed. Greg mentally shook his head as he settled back on the bench with a clipboard and wrote down the stats and a few notes. Setting the clipboard aside, he handed Darling some alcohol wipes for his own bloodied knuckles.

"See what special treatment you're getting, Taz? I have to clean my own wounds," Darling said.

"You hardly have more than a couple scrapes, Pete," Greg scoffed. "I think you can manage." Greg turned back to the young man. "Taz, I'm going to check you over for injuries."

Dean turned steely eyes on him. "You fucking touch me and I'll make your life hell. I'm fine. I've cooperated because I told the cop I would and because I was bleeding. You touch me and that cooperation ends."

"C'mon Taz, I really need to make sure you're okay," Greg urged, a little unsettled by the teen's tone.

"I said I'm fine. You really want to push a crazy-ass guy like me? You may have me strapped down, but I'll struggle so hard you won't be able to tell a damned thing about anything, even if I was hurt."

"What about your back?" Darling asked. "It was scraped up pretty badly."

Dean turned his cold gaze to the officer. "What are you going to do? Release my arms to let me sit up so the bandage guy can look at it?" He gave the cop a sardonic smile. "Be my guest."

Greg and Darling traded looks and Darling shrugged helplessly. Greg sighed. "Okay. If your back's scraped up, how do your ribs feel? What about your arms or shoulders? What about your stomach and legs?"

"My shoulders ache because of Ponch, here. What are you going to do about them? Kiss them and make them better?" Dean asked.

"All right," Greg sighed, "I'll let the hospital check you over." The young man was right. He really didn't want to push him. Taking supplies out of a cabinet, Greg pulled out an IV needle and tubing, then a packet of saline that he hung on a hook. He sanitized the inside of the teen's right forearm. Taz tried to pull away but the restraints and straps made it impossible.

"You're not giving me drugs!" Taz yelled at him

"Easy kid, this is just saline and it's standard procedure," Greg reassured him. "I'm real good at this. You'll hardly feel it." He proceeded to open the package with the 18 gauge IV needle.

"I don't want an IV!" Dean shouted at him, struggling harder as he locked a fury-filled gaze on him. Dean didn't have a choice but to give away what he could do. He pulled his left hand out of the restraint with a hard jerk and punched Greg in the face.

The startled medic fell back onto the bench and cursed.

"Greg?" Priscilla called through the window between the cab where she sat in the driver's seat and the rear of the ambulance.

"Stay there, Priscilla," Darling said as he jumped to his feet and grabbed Taz's free arm. Greg pushed himself up and leaned across the cot to undo the now empty restraint, baffled as to how the kid had gotten his hand free. It took both Darling and Greg to get Taz's arm back in the restraint. Greg tightened the strap but wasn't really sure he got the restraint any tighter than he had previously. He'd never seen anyone get out of the restraints before. Darling quickly cuffed Taz's wrist to the cot's rail.

"No!" Dean cried and struggled to free his hand again. He shouldn't have given it away. He should have just let them give him the drugs and, when he'd fought the effects off, he could have done what he'd done before. Escaped.

"Greg? Pete? You okay?" Priscilla asked worriedly, peering in through the open window, the cab's radio mike in her hand.

.

"Yeah," Greg said. "We've got him back in his restraints."

"Back in? How the hell'd he get out?" Priscilla asked incredulously.

"Guess we didn't get the one on his left wrist tight enough," Greg said.

"You sure I don't need to call for more help?" she asked, ready to click the mike open.

Greg eased his way around Darling. He put his knee on the seat by the advanced life support radio used to contact the hospital and looked through the window at his partner. "It'll be too damned crowded with three in here. We'll end up falling over each other if the kid goes ballistic again," he said quietly.

"You know," Priscilla said, "it might be wise to try to get Pete to put his gun up front. If that boy gets out again and gets a hold of his gun—"

"You and I both know the regs, and you and I both know that no officer will give up his gun no matter what the regs are. Pete's got the kid handcuffed to the cot now and he seems to have a way with the kid. I think we'll be okay. If Pete can convince him to let me start an IV, we'll be good. If not, we might have to roll without one in place. Give me a few more minutes."

Priscilla gave a curt nod. "All right, but if it sounds like the kid's getting crazy again, I'm calling over one of the cops." She scowled and looked harder at Greg's face, seeing a red mark on his cheek. "He hit you?"

Greg gave a nod. "Yeah, and he might look like a lightweight but the son-of-a-bitch hits hard.

"Are you sure—"

"Yes. We're good. Just stand by." Greg turned from his partner and watched Darling on one knee beside the cot, the kid's hand in his own.

"Taz," Darling said, "you probably haven't had much to eat or drink, you're probably dehydrated and you might be in a little bit of shock, especially when that adrenaline rush starts to wear off." He saw the panicked look in the teen's eyes and reassured him. "He's not going to give you any drugs. I'll make sure of that."

Dean stared into the officer's sincere eyes. "Promise?" he whispered, his face reflecting his fright and distrust.

"Promise," Darling said and squeezed his hand. He was surprised when the young man squeezed back and held Darling's hand tightly.

The youth's gaze slid to the medic and studied him for several seconds. He finally gave a sharp nod. His gaze came back to the officer. "Okay. But no drugs. You promised."

Greg let loose a quiet sigh of relief and went back to the IV equipment laid out. He pulled out a fresh needle. "No drugs, it's just a saline drip to help rehydrate you," Greg assured him as he knelt by Taz. Darling scooted down a little to give Greg more room.

The teen's lips pressed together and his eyes scanned the equipment Greg had laid out. "If you try to push any drugs into me, I swear I'll find a way to make you pay."

Greg worked his jaw and put his hand where Taz hit him. "You've already gotten off to a good start on that."

Taz's eyes narrowed and he growled, "That wasn't even close to what I'll do to you."

Greg was taken aback by the murderous look he saw in the teen's eyes. He knew then that the teen was truly dangerous. He resisted the urge to double check the restraints and wondered if he shouldn't take Priscilla up on the offer to call in more help. If the teen got loose again, he had a feeling he'd be the young man's first target.

"Taz," Darling said, "he's not going to give you anything."

"We don't carry any sort of drugs except some for heart patients, some sugar for diabetics, and epi for people having allergic reactions. You don't fall into any of those categories," Greg said as he tied a constricting band around the teen's arm, feeling the teen stiffen under his touch. He wondered if the teen was going to be able to free his right arm as well and hoped he couldn't. Usually he'd put an IV in a patient's forearm. That wasn't a good option since Taz was restrained and he opted for the crook of his elbow. He noted the teen still had a death grip on Darling's hand. After wiping the area down with alcohol he studied the veins he saw, chose one, and slid the needle in place. He pulled out the needle, leaving the IV insert in place, ran the air of out the IV tubing, connected it to the insert, and untied the constricting band on the young man's arm. Turning a small dial on the IV, he watched until he acquired a slow and steady drip, and then taped the needle and tubing in place.

The youth's eyes went from the IV and back to Greg, watching his every move. Finally satisfied, he looked at the officer and suddenly realized he was still gripping Darling's hand. His face reddened and he quickly released it.

Darling leaned in a little closer and winked. "Don't worry, Taz. I won't tell anyone."

Swallowing back his embarrassment, Dean gave a tiny nod. He was just relieved the medic was no longer touching him. He finally looked at the bar above the officer's badge, which read 'P. Darling.'

"Your name's Darling?" Dean asked, stifling a bark of laughter. "Geez, you must have had it rough in school."

The officer chuckled as he sat back on the cushioned bench, pleased the teen had become calm again. "Yeah, it sucked big time in middle school. I finally gained some height and weight in high school, and a proclivity for punching anyone who harassed me about it. Being on the football team didn't hurt, either."

"I'll bet," Dean murmured. "You've got a mean tackle, too."

"Thanks. Nice to know I haven't lost my touch."

"Okay, Priscilla, we can roll. We're good to go," Greg called up to his partner, relief coloring his words as he gathered the trash and tossed it in the trash can. He put the needle he'd used and the one that had ended up on the floor into the sharps container, then picked up his clipboard and settled onto the bench.

"Memorial, I assume?" she asked.

"Unless they redirect, yeah. I'll call them in a minute when I get some more info from our patient."

Dean heard Priscilla call in to the dispatcher as the ambulance was put into gear and began to move. His gaze remained locked with Darling's and his respirations began to increase.

Darling could see the teen was clearly frightened regardless of his periodic bravado. He was tempted to move back to the teen's side and take his hand again, trying to soothe him. Reluctantly, he stayed where he was.

"How old are you?" Greg asked.

Dean didn't answer.

"C'mon, Taz," Darling coaxed, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "You want those M&Ms and coffee, you need to cooperate. You said you would."

Dean turned his focus away from Darling, staring at the ceiling. "Twenty-two."

"Bullshit," Darling said.

"Believe what you want. I'm twenty-two," Dean said.

Maybe eighteen, Greg thought, but agreed with Darling. The young man was surely still a teen. Greg reached into the cabinet behind him and pulled out an icepack. Darling took it from him, popped the chemical bag inside and handed it back to Greg after wrapping it in a towel. Greg held it up to his cheek as he asked, "So what's your given name?"

"Bite me," Dean said.

"Hey, now," Darling said, "earlier you told me your name was G.T. Hell."

Despite himself, Dean shifted his attention back to the officer and smirked. "That's as good as any."

Pleased he'd gotten that much from the youth, Darling grinned back. Taz seemed to respond well to smart-ass humor. Pongo and he patrolled some of the less savory parts of town and using smart-ass humor often allowed them to connect with the kids there.

Dean looked at Greg and then his gaze went back to Darling. "Just Taz," he said smugly.

Darling tried to hide his smile as he gave a slow shake of his head. "I should have called you 'Pita'—pain in the ass."

Dean smirked. "I've been called that before, too."

From the looks passed, Greg was certain there was a private joke between the officer and patient, but decided it best not to pursue it. "When's your birthday, Taz?" Greg asked.

Again, Dean didn't answer and his attention shifted back to the ceiling of the ambulance.

"Address…? Then at least tell me, are you allergic to anything?" Greg went on, ignoring Taz's silence.

When the teen didn't answer, Darling spoke again. "Kid, they need to know your allergies."

Dean sighed with frustration. "I'm. Not. A. Kid."

With a roll of his eyes, Darling gave him a sarcastic apology. "Sorry. _Taz_. What are you allergic to?"

"Penicillin," Dean finally responded. They might decide he needed an antibiotic if any of his wounds looked inflamed and he really didn't want to end up going into anaphylactic shock because he was too stubborn to tell them. .

Greg set the icepack beside him and made a few notes on the clipboard. "Any history of medical problems?"

When the teen ignored Greg yet once again, Darling heaved his own sigh of frustration, "C'mon, Taz, am I going to have to remind you every time? You promised you'd be cooperative."

"No. No problems," Dean said with a scowl.

Greg handed the clipboard to Darling and pointed to the next question. Darling raised an eyebrow. "He's not talking to me," Greg said softly as he picked up the icepack and held it against his cheek. From the way his cheek throbbed, he knew he was going to have an ugly bruise within a few hours.

Darling looked at the sheet. "What about surgeries?"

"Appendix," Dean said reluctantly. "And my hand and arm. The one you kept asking about and, incidentally, the one you grabbed and nearly ripped out of my shoulder."

"I'm not apologizing for keeping you from jumping, Taz," Darling said as he wrote down Taz's answers. "You're the one who didn't give me a choice."

"Sure I did," Dean snapped but his voice softened and sadness touched his countenance and filled his words. "….you could have let me end it. It would have been better."

Darling felt his heart go out to the youth. It had been a long time since he'd seen a kid this messed up that wasn't an addict or abused. For the reaction Taz had to drugs, it was a pretty good bet he wasn't an addict. For the things he'd said and the way he responded to anyone touching him, it was a pretty good bet the kid _had_ been abused. Badly abused. "That's kind of a permanent fix to your problems, don't you think?" Darling asked.

Dean turned his head to look at Darling again. His voice was a mere whisper. "My problems can't be fixed. I'm broken. Everything's broken. It would have fixed it all."

Darling remembered a similar conversation he'd had with one of his brothers, only the topic has been drugs, not suicide. Darling had been on three calls for jumpers, two of which he'd saved. They told him basically the same thing. One went on to lead something approaching a normal life. The other one had eventually succeeded in his desperate wish for death. "You'd be surprised what doctors can fix nowadays. Speaking of doctors, who's yours?"

"Doolittle. Got this cool pink snail he rides," Dean said sarcastically, the sadness still shadowing his eyes.

"Oh, yeah," Darling said. "I used to go to him but by the time I'd leave his office, I'd have fur all over my uniform. And I think I'm allergic to push-me-pull-yous."

The youth rolled his eyes but Darling could see the barest hint of a smile on the teen's lips, and laughter replace the sadness in his eyes.

"So why did you try to jump?" Darling asked.

Dean snorted. "Because I wanted to see if I could fly like Superman." Dean regretted letting them know he could escape the restraints. The handcuff from the rail to his wrist made getting his left hand free impossible now, and his thumb hurt like hell and was probably too swollen to let him try again, anyhow. His right shoulder just hurt too much to try yanking that arm free.

"You forgot your cape," Darling pointed out.

"I left it in my other bag," Dean muttered.

"Did someone abuse you?" Darling asked gently. He knew the answer but hoped he could get the boy to tell him. Taz had said his mother was dead. That left a logical choice. "Your Dad, maybe?"

Eyes turning sullen, Dean said, "He's not the father of the year, but he'd never hurt me or Sammy."

"Sammy?" Darling asked, hopeful he'd get some sort of lead on the teen. He had his suspicions as to who Taz was, but he wasn't ready to play those cards yet. He wasn't sure the teen would react at all well if he discovered Darling knew who he was. If he was right, Taz was seventeen and a runaway.

Dean flinched and dropped his gaze from him. He cursed himself for letting his brother's name slip. Better that they believe it was just him. He didn't want Sammy dragged into this. Sammy had been through enough and didn't need to see Dean restrained and bloody.

If Taz's father hadn't abused him, Darling mused, maybe other family members had. It was common for kids to protect their abusers from retribution. Maybe Taz's dad, being a single father, left Taz with family. Sammy was probably a brother, but it was likely only Taz had suffered at the abuser's hands. He wondered if Sammy was older or younger, and decided he was probably younger. It was unlikely Taz would call him Sammy rather than Sam if Sammy were older. _Maybe a new angle,_ Darling thought. "Who broke your arm?"

Dean stared at the shelves loaded with bandages, saline packs, dextrose packs, and an assortment of other supplies that he could name if he felt like it. He was all too familiar with most of the equipment in the ambulance. He'd played medic for his father, his brother, and others too many times.

"Taz? Who broke your arm?" Darling asked again. On the bridge he'd decided whatever happened to the kid's arm was the reason the kid was ready to jump. Now that Darling was fairly certain the kid was also abused, whoever broke his arm was probably the abuser. "Taz?"

Realizing Darling wasn't going to pass that question over, Dean relented. It didn't really matter anyhow. "I got in a fight at school. I lost. Badly," he said.

Not in Louisville, Darling thought. He'd have heard something about a kid getting his arm damaged as badly as Taz implied. He'd said the doctors were trying to fix it and the set of new scars on his arm suggested reconstructive surgery. "A fight at school, huh? I don't seem to recall hearing anything about a kid getting his arm broken in a fight at school."

Dean pursed his lips, contemplating, then gave a half-shrug. "It was in Chicago. I dunno. Maybe three months ago. I think it was kept out of the news."

Darling frowned. Why would a fight at school and a broken arm warrant a news story?

"Just how badly did you lose?"

"I almost died," Dean said then added in a whisper, "Would have been better if I had."

Darling wished he could say something to ease Taz's anguish but what could he say to someone as screwed in the head as Taz was and possibly hope to make anything better?

"I bet Sammy's glad you didn't. Is Sammy your brother?"

Dean stared a moment at the officer then turned his gaze to the ceiling of the ambulance. "Until I get my coffee and M&Ms I'm done talking," Dean said. "Just crank the heat."

Greg reached over and turned the heat up another notch. "Better?"

Dean only turned his face back toward the medical cabinets.

Greg looked at Darling. "I've got to call this in. They might redirect us because of … the help he needs."

Darling handed Greg the clipboard. Greg settled into the seat in front of the cot and called the hospital on the radio. He gave them the stats and the situation, but the hospital told him to come ahead.

Darling saw the kid tense when Greg moved to the head of the cot. The youth trembled and tried to curl in on himself. "Taz," Darling said, reaching out and laying his hand on Taz's arm. The teen jumped and gave a soft whimper as he tried to pull away from Darling. "It's okay, Taz. We're not going to hurt you. You're safe here." Darling left his hand on Taz's arm, hoping the teen would respond as he had when Darling took his hand. "You need anything else? Is there someone I can call for you? Someone who might be worried about you? What about your brother, Sammy?"

Dean, still trembling, twisted his head, his green eyes staring at the hand on his arm. His gaze slowly crept up to the concerned face of the officer. _Yes! _He wanted to scream. Call Sammy. Call Caleb. Call Mac. Call Pastor Jim. Or even David. He wanted to go home—well, the only semblance of a home he'd ever had. Pastor Jim's. He felt safe out on the farm. The nightmares still came, but Sammy was there. Sam would crawl into bed beside him, throw his arm over Dean—just as Dean used to do for Sam—and whisper it was okay. Dean would shake for minutes after the nightmare but Sam's presence and concern made the terror slip away into the dark and he felt a little more human, a little more like himself. At least until the next nightmare. Or the next noise that spooked him, that reminded him of the warehouse. Even someone calling him by his given name made him shudder. _They_ had made sure of that.

If only Caleb and Mac could have come. But they were in Africa and would be gone and out of touch for months. At this point, Dean had lost track of time. He wasn't sure when they'd be back in the States. A part of him was glad. He didn't want Mac or Caleb to see him so broken. He didn't want them to see inside his head and see what had been done to him and how he'd failed—failed beyond forgiveness. No. That thought made him suddenly glad Caleb wasn't there. He didn't think he could stand to see the disgust in his best friend's eyes.

He felt Darling squeeze his arm gently. "No one, kiddo?"

Dean shook his head slowly, but relaxed fractionally beneath the officer's touch. "No one," he whispered.

"Not even your dad?" Darling asked, feeling the teen stop his trembling. He smiled triumphantly to himself as he knew he'd finally gained some degree of trust from Taz.

Dean's lips pressed together. "Coffee. M&Ms. Done talking."

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	6. Chapter 6

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Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

This disclaimer will prefix every chapter.

**Rating: M.** Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! I'm not quite as happy with this chapter as I'd like to be, but I've read it so much my eyes are crossing and I can't tell what needs fixing, if anything. I've decided to post and hope it reads well. I thank my beta, my bestest buddy and fanfiction lurker for catching my errors. See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 6**

_How far can you go? How long will you strive?  
__I will strive until this day seeks its tragic end.  
__Broken window, shattered dream  
__Shattered window, broken dream_

—_Torn and Weathered, Yesterdays Dream_

**Then:  
**_March 18__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam stared worriedly at Dean. "Please Dean, don't go to school. I've got a really bad feeling. I don't want you to go."

"If I don't show, they'll just come here looking for us," Dean said as he packed their lunches.

"Then let's leave now!" Sam begged. "We're already packed. Let's just load up the car and go. The snow has stopped and I bet they've got the roads salted."

Dean knelt down and put his hands on Sammy's shoulders. "It's been too cold for the salt to work and you know it. I need to scope a few things out. We can't just drive around aimlessly and walk into any shelter. It's cold and the shelters will fill up fast. We need to know which ones we can go to that aren't likely to call in social services and we need to know what time they open so we can be sure to get there early. If both of us are wheeling around and we hit the wrong one, social services will be on us in nothing flat and it's too freaking cold to sleep in a car with a busted out window. That trash bag I taped over the window isn't going to keep out the cold. Besides, what are the Dementors going to do? Jump me in the parking lot? The cops sit in the lot half the time. I told you, I'll bail about one-thirty and do the recon."

Dean would have preferred to do just what Sammy said but the trunk of his car was no longer secure. They couldn't load up the trunk with the box of stuff under the bed and not worry about it being stolen. They'd already switched the most important items from the box over to the hiking backpack and it was freaking heavy. And they had both his and Sam's backpacks and duffels, as well as a stash of food they needed to bring along. Dean didn't want to have to haul all their stuff around while hunting for a place for them to stay, or alternately leave Sam in the car alone, not with that broken window. He'd also prefer to save the gas if he could. He was down to a quarter tank and only had seven dollars left out of the money John had left them. He had the money he'd squirreled away, but they were going to have to eat this weekend, pay for lockers somewhere to stow their stuff during the day, and keep back enough cash that they could get to Pastor Jim's if Dad didn't show. Cold ravioli or cold soup out of the can didn't sound real attractive for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They could hit a soup kitchen, he supposed.

He hated the thought of asking Jim for money, but he wasn't going to let Sammy carry the same accusations for him that Dean had for his father. Dean wasn't too proud to ask for money, not if Sammy's safety was at stake.

"Please, Dean," Sam begged softly. "Please."

Dean steeled himself against Sammy's puppy dog eyes. No. This was the best way, whether Sam wanted to admit it or not.

"I'll try to get to the library by four." He sighed. "Look, I'll leave at lunchtime, okay? Stop your worrying, Runt. Captain One-Helluva-Big-Brother can take care of himself. If I can't dodge 'em, I deserve what I get."

Even if they did jump him, Dean knew he was more than capable of defending himself against a few of them. He _was_ worried it might not just be a few that cornered him, and he was worried enough that he'd decided to pack a knife today. It was a four inch blade, enough to defend himself with. He hoped. It would suck to get the crap beaten out of him just before Dad got back and he figured it would be one helluva beating if it happened. He wished he'd managed to make some real friends in this school, some that would help him out, but he'd been unsuccessful in making more than mere acquaintances. He wasn't used to that and it frustrated him.

Reluctantly, Sam accepted Dean wouldn't do the sensible thing and head to Jim's. He knew it could run as much as twenty-five or thirty dollars in gas to get there, what with the snow slowing them down. There was some gas left in the car, but he wasn't sure how much, and they'd spent about half the grocery money already. After what Dean said the night before, he wondered how much Dean had managed to save. Maybe ten or fifteen dollars? Sam had about six dollars that he could throw into the pot. He took comfort in the fact that Dean was at least getting out of school early—though he found it ironic that he couldn't convince his big brother to skip school all together. He tried very hard to believe the day would go fine.

"Tell you what, tomorrow we'll stow our stuff-- the Greyhound station probably has lockers big enough--then we'll go uptown to the mall. We'll get a couple sandwiches, and catch a movie. And maybe look at things you'd like for your birthday."

"Where'd you get that sort of money?" Sam asked. "Isn't there only a few dollars left?" How could Dean be talking about Sam's birthday when the Dementors were hunting him today? And if he had enough cash for sandwiches and a movie, then why couldn't they just head to Jim's? Even if they only got halfway there, they could find a place to hole up and get some sleep and call Jim for some cash. Or they could sell their cell phones. The cell phones were cool, but he'd rather get out of town and keep Dean safe than have a stupid cell phone.

Dean grinned. "Ah, I did a little work for someone."

Grabbing Dean's arm, Sam's face became a picture of concern. "What did you do?" he whispered, suddenly afraid what Dean might have done to score some cash. He'd seen too many things at school and heard what kids in this neighborhood did to earn money.

"Dude. Really." Dean laughed at Sam, but was touched by his brother's concern for his honor. "Last weekend, when I was gone all Saturday? A guy paid me to help him fix his car. Your birthday is a few _months_ away, but it was an opportunity to get some cash that I couldn't pass up. And let me tell you, an honest day's work sucks, especially for what I got paid. And besides, who said we'd pony up for the movie? We should be able to sneak in. It'll be busy."

The worry over what Dean might have done melted out of Sam. Of course Dean wouldn't have done something terrible. He had wondered where Dean had been all day. Sam had stayed in front of the TV, trying to stay out of his father's way. His father had spent most the day either tending to weapons, working on the engine of the Impala, or making phone calls.

Releasing his grip, Sam punched him in the arm. "You've got money and we've been eating mac and cheese, Ramen noodles, and PB&Js for a month now?"

Dean laughed at Sam's indignation. "Hey, little Sammy. Your birthday is way more important than eating."

Sam shrugged and mumbled. "It's just a stupid birthday."

Dean grinned. He always tried to make Sam's birthday something special. And Sam was going to be a teenager now. It had to be extra special. Sam had been wanting a soccer ball so badly he could taste it, especially since his soccer team took the division championship. Sammy was so proud of that trophy. Their father hadn't made the award's ceremony, but Dean knew John was out working some paying jobs so they could stay at that school long enough for Sammy to go to the division championships, long enough that Dean could finish out the season of baseball and go to a couple school dances. Long enough that they had a taste of something resembling a normal life. He wasn't sure, but his dad might have even borrowed money from Mac—something all but unthinkable. Winchesters didn't take handouts. He also suspected John had sold off a couple of his guns. Two pistols and one rifle were missing and John hadn't been ranting about anything being stolen.

Dean really wanted to get Sam a leather coat, kind of like the one David had given Dean, but it was way too expensive and he expected Sam would be hitting a growth spurt in a month or two. He'd only made thirty bucks but he thought he could get a decent brand new soccer ball for like ten or twenty so maybe he could keep enough back for that. He knew Sam would be the happiest kid there was for a good couple weeks, though John might not be real thrilled with Dean and his present to Sammy.

_Too bad. Dad'll just have to deal with it, _Dean thought.

"I still wish you wouldn't go to school today. I don't need a birthday present. The best present would be for us to get out of town. We could sell my cell phone and get some money," Sam said, his voice rich with fear. He hugged his arms around himself and his eyes glistened with tears.

Dean stared into his frightened hazel eyes. "We're not selling our phones. Mac gave 'em to us. I'll be fine, Sam. Stop your worrying. I've faced worse things and you know it. I'll dodge them, just like I've been doing. Look, if you're really worried, call me at lunch time, okay?"

Sam stared back into his brother's confident eyes. His brother could beat anything. Even the Dementors. But the little voice in the back of his head didn't believe it. A tear crept down Sam's cheek.

_Ah geez,_ Dean thought with a sigh. _Chick-flick moment. _But he knew he had to reassure his brother. He pulled Sam into a hug. "Sammy, I'm going to be okay, really. If it starts getting dicey, I'll bail."

"Promise?" Sam sniffled, hugging his brother as if it was going to be the last time he'd ever see him.

"I _promise_," Dean reassured him. "And you know I always keep my promises."

Sammy nodded but continued to hug his brother tightly, his fear not assuaged.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean peered out of the classroom. Juarez and five of his thugs stood out in the hall, waiting for him. Dean had been dodging them all morning.

"Crap," Dean muttered. He could probably take the six if they didn't get a hold of him, but to do so, he'd have to hurt them badly enough to draw attention from the teachers, which meant the cops came, which meant a call to John. Of course, that thought hadn't penetrated his red fury the day before when he was ready to break Juarez's arm. He was just lucky he hadn't got caught.

"Did you have a question, Dean?" Ms. Conners asked. The classroom was empty except for the two of them. Dean rarely hung around after class unless it was to try to convince her to let him read a different book or short story than that assigned. She'd enjoyed his enthusiastic paper on classic cars. She'd laughed silently when he apologized that the paper was two pages longer than it was supposed to be. When she had the students turn in a story for the creative writing assignment, his story of dragons and a young prince had been equally enjoyable. Now, though, his brow was creased with concern and he seemed reluctant to step into the hall. That suggested someone was outside waiting for him

Dean turned around at her question. "Uh, yeah, actually. You're headed to lunch, right?"

"Yes," Ms. Conners said warily. She hoped that whoever was out in the hall wasn't someone lying in wait for her. She'd had that happen two years back and it took everything she had to come back to work. She'd grown up in the area and wanted to try to help the local kids, so she'd forced herself to return, but not until she'd taken a week long training class in self-defense. Dean had smarted off occasionally but had never shown her any ill-will. Even so, she knew all too well that in this school, any kid could be dangerous.

Dean saw the fearful look in her eyes and wondered what she'd had to face down before. He saw her hand move closer to her pocket where there was a slight bulge. He wondered if it was mace or pepper spray tucked inside it. When teachers were afraid of the kids, it just wasn't right. "I don't want to hold you up. Why don't I ask as you head to the teacher's lounge?" Dean said smoothly and gave her his best winning smile.

Ms. Conners frowned a moment then nodded, cautious relief reflected faintly in her eyes. She'd rather be out in the hall than cornered in her class room, if she was indeed the target. "That would be fine. What did you need?"

With a flair of his hand, Dean waved her first through the doorway. She hesitated, unsure if he was being gallant or sending her to the slaughter. She gripped the mace in her pocket and hoped this wasn't going to be a repeat of two years ago. She smiled grimly to herself. No, it wouldn't be a repeat of two years ago. She'd been training weekly at the local dojo since then. She was no longer a soft and easy target.

As she suspected, a group of boys—damn, it was Martin Juarez and his henchmen—stood across the hall, waiting. Martin had two black eyes and it looked like a recently broken nose. His gaze was malevolent, but it wasn't for her. His eyes followed the Winchester boy. She felt a measure of pride that Martin didn't push her aside and go after Dean anyhow, because there was no doubt at this point that Dean was their target. Three times in the past two years someone had gone for a student she was escorting. She'd maced one, and the other two times she'd faced them down, nearly breaking the arm of one student, and another she'd put on the floor in an arm lock. The Dementors, though, they were in an entirely different category of dangerous. If they pushed, she'd back down, but the cop out in the parking lot would be in the school in less than a minute and Martin knew it. She saw Dean flash Juarez a grin as he followed her.

"Yeah, I was really interested in this Emily Dickinson chick and was wondering what other sort of poetry she wrote," Dean said as he walked with Ms. Conners.

"You don't strike me as the poetry type, Dean," Ms Conners said, giving him a raised eyebrow and a skeptical look. She knew full well he was hoping her presence would buy him distance from the gang members. They both knew he was in for a bad beating or worse when the gang caught up to him. She saw his gaze flick to the reflection in the glass of a partly opened door. She followed his gaze and saw that the glass reflected the gang members and that the boys weren't following them.

"No, but girls dig poetry," Dean said. "And girls, those I'm interested in."

He was unbelievable. He had the Dementors after him and he was cracking jokes. She wondered briefly if his humor was derived from fear or bravery. All the same, his words made her laugh. She began listing some poetry that might woo a girl, though she knew his apparent attentiveness was a façade. When they reached the teacher's lounge, she turned to face him. "The Dementors have marked you, haven't they?"

Dean sniffed and pursed his lips. He finally gave her a sharp nod. "Yeah. I defended Isabelle yesterday. I gave Martin that broken nose he's sporting."

Ms. Conner's inhaled sharply. It was worse than she feared. Dean had been damned lucky the Dementors hadn't ignored her and gone after him anyhow. That, in and of itself, told her just how bad a situation Dean was in. They didn't want witnesses. "You shouldn't have come to school today," she paused and admitted reluctantly, "probably not ever again. People who stand up to him disappear." She laid a hand on Dean's shoulder and was startled to feel the firm muscle hidden beneath the leather coat and layers of oversized shirts. "Go home, Dean. Get out now, while you still can. You hear me? He won't let something like that pass."

Dean scowled. "I don't run—"

Ms. Conners shook her head. "Don't let your pride make you stupid. He's dangerous. He can be deadly. Go. Now."

As soon as Ms. Conners went into the teachers lounge, Dean headed for the nearest exit. The fear for him in Ms. Conners eyes shook him. Maybe his little brother was right; he needed to bail. It was Friday and missing half a day of school wouldn't be enough to warrant a phone call; he usually had to skip a couple days for someone to call his dad. He needed to get back to the motel, load the car, hunt down a locker to stash their stuff in, and maybe go ahead and pick up Sam. Dean knew if John wasn't back in town this weekend, Dean couldn't risk staying in town any longer and he'd do what he'd promised Sam. To be on the safe side he'd call Pastor Jim tomorrow evening and ask him to wire them twenty or thirty dollars. The farm was about 5 hours away but he didn't have any idea how bad the roads might be. For all he knew it could take them twenty hours to get there. The roads would probably be cleared by Sunday morning—no, he'd give his father until just after lunch on Sunday before they headed to New Haven. The Dementors wouldn't know where to find them. He chewed the inside of his lip. If John's phone wasn't working by tomorrow afternoon, John wouldn't be back by Sunday. Okay, maybe he'd give his father until mid-day tomorrow to make contact. The roads might still be pretty bad, but he'd rather be out of this damned town, no matter what. He'd also need to find some cardboard to put over the window. He could hit a trash bin behind the grocery store up the road. The cardboard wouldn't help much, but it would be a damned sight better than the garbage bag. It was going to be a freaking cold drive in any case. He figured the lockers at the bus station wouldn't be cheap for the size of one that they'd need, so he might was well call Jim tonight, do the shelter for the evening, and stall until lunchtime to see if their dad checked in. Odds were the snow had slowed John down as well.

Dean checked outside and saw kids milling about close to the building, keeping out of the wind. Some smoked cigarettes or weed while others seemed to be gossiping, their hands shoved in their coat pockets to keep them warm.

Dean stepped out into the bitingly cold sunny day and headed across the blacktop for the parking lot, ice crunching under his boots. If he was going to bail on school, best he head home for an hour, get some lunch, and review the attack plan on homeless shelters to check out. He shook his head to himself. No. No way was that god-awful place home. Okay, maybe he'd go to Desander's Park, eat his lunch, and review the city map. He liked the little pond at Desander's. The pond reminded him of Pastor Jim's though Jim's pond was larger and had great fishing. There was a cool-ass looking willow tree beside the pond at Desander's and he knew it would look freaking awesome all iced up, like out of one of Sammy's fantasy tales spun by the Pastor. It was cool enough looking he thought it would be a perfect place for Athewm the dragon to curl up and watch the world pass by until Prince Samuel needed him. It would be cold, but better than sitting in that crap motel for an hour.

He scanned the parking lot. He saw the cop car taking off down the street, its lights on. Never a dull moment in this section of town. There were kids around, but he didn't see Juarez. He knew Juarez would expect Dean to go to one of his public hideouts, like the lunch room which was monitored by the teachers, or the gym, where the coach was usually working with the basketball team. Dean never went out for lunch, so it was doubtful Juarez would expect him to be in the parking lot. He ought to have a good fifteen minutes before Juarez realized Dean wasn't on the school grounds anymore.

Dean paused when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the number.

"Heya, Sammy. What's up? Everything okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I was just checking to make sure things were, you know, okay with you." Sam then added in a small voice, "You said I could call."

"I did and I'm fine. No fighting and no homework for the weekend, not that it would matter. Doesn't get much better than that. You ready to be out of that crap motel once and for all?"

He could hear Sam's smile. "Yeah." He sounded relieved.

"All right then. Tristan and José still going with you to the library?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Sam said, exasperation clear in his voice and Dean could practically hear Sam's eyes roll. "See you at four?" Sam said, fear inching back into his tone.

"You betcha, maybe earlier if I can find us a good place to crash. Be careful, Runt. Dad'll have my hide if you get in any trouble." He didn't want to tell Sam he was going to head straight to the motel, load up, and come get him. Sam would worry himself sick over the change in plans and he'd know Dean was more concerned about the Dementors than Dean wanted Sam to believe.

"I will, Dean…you, too. Please be careful. Extra special careful."

"Stop worrying, Sammy. I will. I promise."

"Okay…Bye."

"Bye, Sammy." Dean ended the call. He hadn't much more than put it in his pocket when it rang again. He growled to himself. What did it take to reassure his brother?

"Sam—" Dean began.

"I can tell you're not the psychic one," Caleb said.

"Damien!" Dean said, pleased beyond measure to hear his best friend's voice. "What's going on?"

"A lot," Caleb said. "Dad and I are in Africa."

"Where?" Dean asked, shocked.

"Africa. As in the continent across the Atlantic, below Europe. Deuce, I didn't know your geography skills were that bad."

"Real funny, Reaves," Dean growled.

"I take it Johnny didn't tell you?" Caleb asked, a frown in his voice. "We left him a message earlier this week, just before we headed out. Things got a little crazy when we got here and I didn't get a chance to call again."

"Dad's hunting," Dean said, leaning against the brick wall of the school and watching for any of the Dementors. He didn't want to be caught out in the open on the phone. The phone was too distracting.

"You still in that shitty motel?" Caleb asked.

"Yeah," Dean said, imagining Caleb's scowl. Caleb had been pissed when John wouldn't accept Mac's loan to get them out of Deidersville. "Shitty motel, shitty school. We've been in some jacked up places, but this one wins the fucking prize. What are you doing in Africa?"

"Tri-Corp stuff," Caleb said. "Deuce, I—" Caleb hesitated. "It's really good to hear your voice. I haven't been able to get to a phone—we're way out in the bush—and the cell phones don't work here. Our satellite phone got clipped the first night in town." Caleb's voice took on a more concerned tone than Dean had heard in a long time. "I had a vision, Deuce. You were getting the crap beat out of you, and there was this girl, pretty little Mexican thing. Then you were calling Sammy's name and he was getting hurt. Are you two okay?" The last came out in a rush, thirty-six hours of frantic searching for a phone, fearing he'd be too late, wearing on Caleb.

"Better late than never, I guess. That was yesterday. And I didn't get the shit kicked out of me. We're fine. I thought you only had death visions."

"I do," Caleb said worriedly. "You sure you two are fine? You sure it was yesterday? I mean, did either of you come close to, uh, biting it?"

Dean debated about telling him he and Sammy were getting ready to bail because of the Dementors, but decided Caleb didn't need the worry. He was half a world away and couldn't do anything even if there was something to do. The vision sounded like the previous day's events, between him saving Isabelle and Sammy almost eating the pipe. "Yeah, we're both fine. I've got a black eye and some bruises, but I'm okay. Sammy—yeah, Sammy came pretty close to getting really hurt. He just ended up with a bad scare, but it's all good. Fact is, Damien, Sammy and I are headed to Pastor Jim's when Dad gets back, maybe sooner if the weather's good or Dad calls."

"You got enough cash—"

Dean snorted. "What are you going to do, send cash by ostrich? I'm calling Jim tonight and getting him to wire us some since Dad might end up going straight to Jim's. I've probably got enough cash, but we got a lot of snow last night and it's too cold for salt to do much. If we get hung up on bad roads, we might need to pull off and get a motel or something and I just don't have enough cash for that. If all we need is gas, I think I'm good but I'd rather have the extra just in case."

"All right," Caleb said, sounding relieved. "I'm glad you're getting out of that place. What changed Johnny's mind? I thought he'd," Caleb's voice deepened in tone as he mimicked his mentor and said, "imposed on Jim enough."

The poke at John's expense made Dean laugh. Dean didn't see the need to correct Caleb's assumption John changed his mind and figured it was best to go along with it. For Dean to go against John's orders was all but unheard of. Caleb would know immediately something was wrong beyond wrong. "It's Dad. You think he'd tell us?"

Caleb laughed softly. "Mr. Need-to-Know. Such a pain-in-the-freaking-ass. I'm glad to hear he finally changed his mind. He can be such a stubborn jar head.

"We're going to be out of touch for a while," Caleb continued, sounding more relaxed. "Once we get the Tri-Corp stuff done, Dad and I are going on vacation, doing some sight-seeing, but I'll call again next phone I get to. Our charter plane is getting ready to drop us off with some guides out in BFE for me to do some scouting of sites, so it'll probably be a while before we get to another phone."

"When will you be back?" Dean asked.

"A couple months but I'll be back before school ends. Tell the runt happy birthday and that'll I'll bring him something cool from Africa."

Dean grinned. "The king of geeks will like whatever you find, I'm sure."

Caleb sighed. "You sure you and Sammy are okay? The vision was…it worried me."

"Yes! Damn, Damien, you're sounding like an old mother hen. Enjoy yourself. Bring me back one of those spears the natives carry or something, huh?"

"I'll see what I can do." Caleb paused and his voice became soft and worried. "Watch yourself, Deuce."

_Theme of the day,_ Dean thought. "I will. Talk to you when you get back."

"Yeah. Tell Sammy I said hey. See you."

"Watch out for lions."

Caleb chuckled. "Will do."

Dean slipped the phone back into his pocket for a second time. It was good to hear Caleb's voice and it bolstered his morale even if the death vision thing was unnerving. It had to have been yesterday, though. Wasn't like he and Isabelle were going to be together, and certainly not with Sam there. Besides, Isabelle hadn't even come to school today, not that Dean blamed her. At least, she wasn't in their second period class this morning. If Dean did stumble across her, he'd just be extra careful. He smiled to himself. Extra special careful, just for Sammy.

Re-checking the parking lot, he saw there was still no sign of Juarez or his cadre. He headed quickly across the snowy lot to his car. The city had gotten a good eight inches of snow from this latest front but the parking lot was mostly packed snow with crusts of ice.

He walked up to his car and tried to shove his key in the lock, but it wouldn't go in. He looked down and saw something had been jammed in the lock, maybe a paper clip. Crap. Then he saw his front and rear tires on the driver's side were flat. He knelt down and looked. The sidewalls had been slashed. Shit. Dad was going to kill him. How were they going to afford tires for the car? More importantly, how was he going to get home and get Sam picked up from school? Well, he'd helped Ben with the car rebuild. Maybe Ben could help him out, just for today. He hoped Ben hadn't started his shift at the mini-mart yet. He'd worry about his next step after he and Sam were together. They could minimize their gear and either go on to Jim's or a homeless shelter. No. Screw it and screw John, Dean decided. He and Sammy were headed to the bus station and getting out tonight. Pastor Jim could probably call the station and pay for their tickets. Hauling their shit was going to suck, but John would already be pissed they were bailing early and Dean didn't dare leave anything behind. For one thing, he didn't want his dad going back to the motel. If Dean had everything with them, Dad could head straight to New Haven. Though he knew his dad could handle damned near anything supernatural, he feared his father just didn't have enough sense to fear "a bunch of kids." Dean really began to wish he'd done what Sammy had begged him to do. They should have just skipped out this morning, stashed their stuff, and gone downtown for the day.

He surveyed the parking lot, hunting the shadows for Juarez. Juarez had just effectively limited Dean's escape options. That was more worrisome than anything else at the moment. Evaluating the fences and possible exit routes, he looked for the best—and most unpredictable—means of escape if Juarez showed. Dean groaned as it dawned on him the cop wasn't there, that he'd gone off on a call. Shit. He wondered if it was bad luck or intentional. Dean fingered his pocket knife. Only four inches, but better than nothing. He wished he'd packed today, even risking getting caught with a gun. He needed to get off school grounds and get off fast.

"Hey, Rifle!"

Dean stiffened and stood up, clutching the knife in his jacket pocket. He was ready to bolt or fight, then saw the source of the call and relaxed a little. It was Tony, better known as River. Tony was an okay guy. They'd played hoops after school once when Sammy was staying late for a project and Dean didn't need to pick him up until five.

"What's up, River?" Dean said. _Still no Juarez_, he thought, but remained watchful.

"Nothing. Glad as hell it's Friday." Tony grinned and walked up to him. "Going out for lunch?"

"Was going to, but it looks like I'm stuck here." Dean indicated the flat tires.

Tony looked at them and gave Dean a sorrowed look. "Ah, that sucks, Rifle." He hesitated then offered, "Why don't you join us? We're going to hit McDonalds."

Dean was surprised by the offer but knew he'd be a fool to turn it down. McDonalds was on Ellemore, getting him halfway home and he thought there was a bus stop near there. "Yeah. Sure."

He gave his car one last look. Damn it. He knew his car wouldn't be here if and when he got to come back for her. At least he'd already he cleaned her all out the night before, what with the broken window and compromised trunk.

He walked with Tony over to Tony's beat up old '69 Electra 500. It was one helluva boat of a car. Tony stopped at the rear passenger's door.

Dean frowned. "You said 'us'? Where are the others?"

"Benny and Roberto are probably dropping off their books and flirting with the girls." Tony glanced at his watch. "They're supposed to be here in about five minutes."

"Thanks for the ride-along. Last thing I wanted was that soy burger crap from the cafeteria," Dean said. He glanced surreptitiously toward the school and the doors that opened onto the parking lot. Five minutes was a long time and gave Juarez plenty of time to try to track Dean down. He was pushing that estimated fifteen minutes and he knew it.

Tony nodded. "Yeah, the food sucks." He gave Dean an attempt at a smile. "I'm really sorry."

"Ah, I'll find some used tires. I'll have her back on the road soon," Dean said with a shrug though he knew it was a lie. Today seemed to be a day of lies, but that was par for the course for a day in the life of a Winchester.

"No. That's not what I mean," Tony said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "I didn't have a choice, Rifle."

The last thing Dean saw was the apology on Tony's face; pain exploded in the back of his head and he felt himself begin to fall to the ground. _Oh, crap,_ Dean thought as his world went black.

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

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Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

This disclaimer will prefix every chapter.

**Rating: M.** Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters, and as a treat, a quick post for this next chapter! Again, a hat's off to my beta. See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 7**

_I need a catalyst, to rekindle the flame_

_That once burned within these fists where defeat remains_

_The night has fallen down the staircase..._

—_The Night I Lost the Will to Fight, Cursive_

**Now:**

_May 14__th__, Louisville, Kentucky_

Dean stared out the back windows of the ambulance, watching the street lights shed sporadic cones of brightness in the cold, dark night. The ride was smoother than he figured it would be. He shifted a little, his back aching from when he had slammed against the concrete wall. He thought it was more than a little scraped up from where they'd dragged him up and over but he wasn't about to tell them that. He didn't want touched. Well, Darling's hand on his arm was kinda okay. Sammy would put his hand on Dean's arm just like Darling was doing. God, he missed his little brother.

Greg had resituated himself on the bench and was filling out the report, his pen scratching on the sheets held by the metal clipboard. With veiled eyes, Darling watched Dean. He smiled at Dean when Dean looked at him, but it wasn't a creepy smile; it was a kind smile, one that was reflected in his hazel eyes. For a last resort, Dean decided, he was a decent guy.

"You a dad?" Dean asked him.

"I thought you were done talking," Darling said, a smirk pulling at the corner of mouth. Taz initiating conversation was a good sign. Maybe he could draw more information out of the young man.

With his wrists restrained, Dean shrugged as best he could. He'd been alone for what felt like an eternity. Alone with his thoughts and his nightmares and his memories of that forever day in the warehouse. He thirsted for conversation with someone who wasn't a drunk, wasn't a homeless person with a distrustful gaze, or wasn't just plain wrong in the head. He wanted to talk with someone who seemed to care about him. Darling probably didn't giave a shit about him, he was just doing his job, but Dean was willing to embrace the delusion, even knowing it for what it was.

"No. Oldest brother of six, though," Darling said, answering Dean's question. He and his wife had been considering kids, but both agreed waiting a few more years might be a good idea.

"You always looked out for them," Dean said, his gaze focused on the blue woolen blanket over him. He was grateful for it as he was finally beginning to feel warm.

"I tried," Darling agreed.

"Did you ever fail them? I mean really big, fucked-up fail them?" He heard the quaver in his voice, the self-loathing. He'd failed so badly, how could he ever live with himself? He couldn't, not really, which was part of the reason he'd been on the bridge in the first place. He was afraid to look up, afraid to meet Darling's gaze, afraid of what he might see in those hazel eyes.

Darling didn't answer immediately. The question rousted memories from thirteen years prior. Time had yet to heal those wounds. "Yeah. One of my brothers died from an overdose," he finally said.

Dean thought about losing Sammy and shuddered. He didn't think he could live without Sammy. Sammy was the bright spot in his gypsy life. "Your brother, how was it your fault? He why you became a cop?"

"He wasn't really the reason. I'd leaned toward law enforcement since I was maybe sixteen, after I saw some police officers helping at a large accident on the interstate. I wanted to help people, being there for them when they needed it." Darling gave a heavy sigh. "As for my brother, I understand now that I couldn't have stopped what happened, even if I'd gotten home earlier. It would have just happened at a different time, a different place. It wasn't my fault he overdosed, but I still feel like I failed him. If only I hadn't met my buddies at IHOP. If only I'd gotten home earlier. If I'd tried harder to get him free of his addiction, if I'd put more time into being a better brother, maybe he'd be alive now. I know I did everything I could, but it doesn't change the guilt. Is Sammy into drugs?"

Refocusing his gaze on Darling, Dean shook his head. "No way in hell. Dad would tan our hides if either of us ever did something that stupid. Shit, he caught me smoking once—just cigarettes," Dean said hastily, seeing the change in Darling's eyes. He didn't want Darling to think he'd do anything else, and he wasn't sure why. "I think I ran laps for four freaking hours, was grounded for three weeks, no TV for two, and man, it sucked vacuum. As for Sammy, he's so freaking pure he ought to have a halo."

"You don't get along with him?" Darling asked. "Is he the paragon son for your dad?"

Dean's eyes shone with laughter. "Nah, he's the best thing in my life. I'm not sure which of us is Dad's favorite. I'm not sure Dad ever had a favorite. Sammy asks so many questions about things that I think it drives Dad nuts. Dad doesn't seem to get that Sammy's just built that way. Has to know everything, has to question everything. Dad and I, we've protected him so much from the bad things in the world, Sammy's kinda naïve at times. I worry about him." Dean sobered suddenly as the light in his eyes faded. His last words were a mere whisper that Darling had to struggle to hear. "At least, he used to be naïve." Tears suddenly began to well in Dean's eyes.

"What happened?" Darling asked softly, wondering if the question was the wrong one to ask and might set the young man off. Taz obviously thought the world of his little brother. He found some comfort that Taz's words strongly suggested his father wasn't the abuser.

Swallowing back his emotions, Dean shook his head. "He was…they did…he saw…he saw me lose the fight." he finally finished as he looked away from Darling, unable to voice what he knew had happened to his brother. What had happened to him. The bile rose in his throat, but he was determined not to puke in front of the officer.

Darling's thoughts drifted back to his own siblings. "You're his hero, aren't you?"

Dean's eyes grew hooded as his words turned bitter. "Maybe I used to be. Before."

The young man's hurt was almost tangible and it cut Darling to his quick. He recalled the flyers at the station. They didn't go into much detail other than that Taz—or rather, D. Matthew Winchester—was a runaway, wasn't necessarily in his right mind, and might be dangerous. He was fairly certain the kid layinglying on the cot was one and the same. "Were you before the fight?" Darling asked.

"Something like that," Dean said.

Sensing it would be best to change the subject before Taz drew into himself again, Daring asked, "How many surgeries have been done on your arm?"

Darling saw Taz relax a little and knew he'd made the right call.

"Two, I think. Maybe three. I don't really remember. Dad says in two or three more and my hand'll be like new," Dean said, grateful that Darling had steered away from the "fight." He didn't want to remember it, let alone talk about it. It was the driving force behind his attempted suicide. He remembered the fury and fear in his little brother's eyes when Sammy had caught Dean with a knife as Dean contemplated slitting his wrists at Pastor Jim's. After that, Dean had given suicide two more serious tries. The third time, this time, would be the charm, he'd hoped. Sammy would be upset if he succeeded, but Dean just hurt so badly and he didn't know how to make the hurt and guilt go away. He could face down anything supernatural with a steady hand and glee in his heart. Failing his family was unacceptable. He didn't deserve to live. His hands shook and his spirit withered in the face of such failure.

"Is that why you don't want to go to the hospital? Too many surgeries got you kind of spooked about them?" Darling asked. He didn't figure that was the case, but he wanted to keep Taz talking and he'd seen the distance come into Taz's eyes. He needed to keep the young man grounded in the present.

"I'm not scared of 'em," Dean said. "Yeah, the surgeries hurt like hell and rehab for my arm and hand is a freaking pain in the ass, especially with Sammy nagging me and making me do them." He paused and gave a soft sigh. "I'm not afraid of the hospital, Darling. I just know I won't end up staying at this hospital of yours." The timbre of his voice changed from sadness to scathing. "I'll end up in the cracker factory. Strapped down. Given drugs to keep me tame."

"Easy, Taz," Darling soothed. "I'll do what I can to keep that from happening, okay? But you've been in that type of hospital for a while, haven't you?" Darling asked, certain of the answer.

A smug smile touched Dean's lips. "Not even a full day."

Darling frowned, surprised. Not even a day and Taz had escaped and ended up on the bridge? After seeing Taz pull his hand out of the restraint, Darling could readily see the potential of how he'd gotten away.

Taz said he was broken, said he'd been left in the hospital, his stability taken away. His stability that was probably his brother, Sammy. Taz felt he'd been abandoned. A distraught father, doing what had probably been the hardest thing he'd ever done, had taken Taz to a psychiatric hospital for help. Darling recalled when he was eight and had broken his leg. His father had left the room while the doctor set and casted his leg. Then the doctor left and he was all alone in that sterile place. Darling had grown frightened, irrationally afraid that his father had abandoned him because he'd broken his leg. Admitted to a psychiatric hospital had to be at least as frightening for Taz, probably more so. "Your dad took you there, left you there. Didn't he?"

Dean's jaw tightened and he turned his head away again.

Deciding to push Taz just a little, Darling said bluntly, "He abandoned you there."

"I just needed more time!" Dean exploded, turning back to the officer. His eyes blazed with fury. "I needed to stay at the farm, I needed Sammy, I needed Pastor Jim and Dad to be there. Dad took that all away. He took me _there_. He _left_ me there." His fury shifted to anguish. "And then I smelled _him_. I smelled _him_ there and I had to get away!"

"Calm down, Taz," Darling said, gently squeezing the young man's arm below the IV. "Calm down. Remember what I said? You're safe here," Darling promised. He could tell the kid wanted to cry. He felt badly pushing Taz, but sensed he needed to. "Taz, who did you smell? Your father?"

Dean shook his head vigorously. "No. _Him._ The one who…" He felt it start and couldn't stop it. He vomited.

"Crap," Greg muttered and grabbed some towels. The vomit had all end up on the blanket and there wasn't much there but bile and a bit of coffee. Greg wiped up the bulk of it and tossed the towels in the trash then stripped off the blanket, folding the bile inside. He opened the plastic bag containing a clean wool blanket and spread the blanket over Dean.

"Try to give some warning next time, huh?" Greg said gently. "You'll end up with a thin cotton blanket since this is the last of the wool."

"Sorry," Dean said miserably, embarrassed by his weakness.

"It's okay kid," Darling said. "I've tossed my cookies a few times, too. There's no shame in it." Darling paused. He'd pushed the kid and the kid threw up because of whatever this unnamed man had done. He needed to know more, though. He wanted desperately to help the teen and to do that, he needed facts. "You smelled this guy and then what happened?" Darling asked, hoping he wasn't pushing Taz too far.

"Could I rinse my mouth out? Please?" Dean begged of the medic, not wanting to tell Darling anything, not wanting to remember any of it. Especially, he didn't want to remember _him_.

Greg hesitated then dug into the supplies, pulling out a small, curved tan container and a water bottle with a squirt spout. Darling moved out of his way and Greg knelt by Taz, holding the bottle up. "Okay Taz, open your mouth. After you rinse your mouth, spit the water into here after you get the taste gone, okay?"

Dean nodded. He felt a little apprehensive, but he really wanted to wash out his mouth. The water squirted in his mouth was cool but not cold. Dean sloshed the water around and spit it out carefully into the container Greg held close to his mouth.

"Better?" Greg asked.

"Could I have a drink? I can still taste it in my throat and I swear I'll hurl again if I don't get it gone." Dean felt his stomach churn restlessly and fought to keep from throwing up again. He'd broken out in a sweat from the adrenaline pumped into his system when he'd vomited. How could he throw up just talking about it? He was so stupid, so weak. It was no wonder his father had left him at the hospital.

"You shouldn't," Greg said, "But one swallow. Okay?"

"Thanks," Dean said gratefully and opened his mouth. Greg squirted a small bit of water into his mouth. It was just a small bit of water, but it helped. Dean let it roll around his mouth a minute than swallowed it down, most of the taste of bile rinsed away.

"Better?" Greg asked.

Dean gave him a weak smile. "Could I maybe have one more?" he asked hopefully.

"I can't, Taz. I shouldn't have given you that one. Think you can make it to the hospital, until after the doctor sees you?"

Dean gave a reluctant nod. "Yeah. I guess."

Greg resisted the urge to pat the young man's arm reassuringly. Taz didn't want Greg to touch him. He'd made that perfectly clear. Greg glanced at Darling and with a nod, went back to his clipboard after putting the container into the trash.

Darling moved back beside Taz. Seeing the dribble of water at the corner of Taz's mouth, he pulled out a towel. "Want me to wipe your mouth dry?"

After a moment of hesitation, Dean bobbed his head. He was comforted than that Darling asked rather than just doing it. That act alone made him trust the man more.

Darling moved slowly and gently wiped around Taz's mouth. He took a fresh section of the towel and wiped Taz's sweaty forehead. Taz jerked a little, but didn't pull away.

"Better?" Darling asked.

"Thanks," Dean said quietly. Sammy would have done that if he'd been here. Of course, if Sammy had been here, Dean could have done it himself if he'd cared that much.

Not wanting to lose the momentum of the teenager opening up some, he set the towel aside as he asked, "What happened after you smelled the guy?"

Dean glared at Darling. "You're like a dog with a bone, you know that?"

"Yep. Still waiting," Darling said, practically holding his breath.

Dean huffed the way Sammy would when he was frustrated. "I just had to get away from there. So I did." Dean's voice turned softer, more tortured. "But the nightmares got worse. I … I didn't know what else to do to make them stop. I just wanted them to stop. I _needed_ them to stop. The bridge seemed like a pretty good alternative at that point. And you, the last resort, you stopped me. I shouldn't have let you get so close. I knew you were getting closer. I should have jumped. I shouldn't have talked to you."

"Maybe you didn't really want to kill yourself?" Darling suggested. He'd seen it before. People really ready to die wouldn't let anyone get close to them. They'd just go ahead and do it.

"I don't want to die," Dean said quietly. "I just want to be the way I was. Not afraid of everything. Hell, not afraid of anything."

**--**

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter._

**Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide. **

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! What was originally chapter 8 got split into chapters 8 and 9. As such, I'll post the second half of chapter 8 (now chapter 9) after this. This chapter took a bit longer to revise than I expected, but I'll try to have chapter 9 up quickly. Again, a hat's off to my regular beta and to my guest beta Megan Casady. See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 8**

_I'm paralyzed  
__I'm gagged and bound  
__no way to rid me of  
__this scapegoat of mine  
__I try to scream, but I can't make a sound  
__I'm missing in stereo_

—_Missing in Stereo, Span_

**Then:  
**_March 18__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam, José and Tristan sat at the wobbly table in the library, books on the Alamo opened and scattered before them. Santa Anna and the Mexican Army were José's research topic while Tristan was handling the American soldiers. Sam's face was bleak as he tried to find information on the old mission; he was supposed to deal with the history of the mission and the battle itself, but it took everything in him to stay focused on the task.

Less than half a page of scribbles filled Sam's black notebook. He tried to concentrate on the words in the encyclopedia in front of him but his gaze kept drifting to the clock over the librarian's desk. It was only three o'clock. Dean wouldn't be at the library to pick him up for another hour. Another interminable hour.

He scrawled a new note on the Alamo. He always made fun of Dean for his all-but-illegible handwriting, but today Sam's typically neat and precise script could easily be mistaken for his brother's. He hadn't read more than a paragraph when he worriedly checked his watch again. He was being stupid but Dean, for his many teenage faults, was usually timely. Rarely early, rarely late—unless there was a pretty girl involved, and then all bets were off. As John Winchester _hated_ waiting, timeliness had been deeply ingrained into both his boys.

Sam chewed on his thumb nail as everything inside him whispered Dean was in trouble. He wasn't late, though. Sam shouldn't be worried. Right?

_Fuck it._ _Dean could just call him a girl._ Pulling out his cell phone, he hit speed dial 1 and listened to the beep-boops as the phone call went out. Sam was being a paranoid geek and he knew it, but Juarez and his gang scared him. Especially since yesterday and especially since he now knew Juarez scared Dean. He'd seen Dean discreetly hide the pocketknife on his person. Dean usually kept a small blade on him, but this was his lockback four inch Buck that Bobby had given him. Although it worried Sam, it didn't worry him as much as it would have if he'd seen Dean pocket his switchblade. Switchblades were illegal, and if Dean got caught with it, the police would be called in. The lockback would simply be confiscated. Sam wondered if Dean had opted against the switchblade for that very reason. He suddenly didn't feel all that reassured that Dean hadn't chosen the switchblade.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam muttered as he listened to the phone ringing. Absently he counted off the rings to himself. _Four…Five…Six…Click_

"Yeah," Dean said. "Leave a message."

Voicemail.

Sam felt his stomach drop and redialed. He got Dean's voicemail again. _No, no, no. C'mon, Dean. Answer your god-damned phone!_

José brushed his black bangs off his forehead as he watched Sam call someone. Out of the gate, he and Tristan judged the new kid a pansy-ass. Full of smiles, brown-nosing all the teachers, raising his hand and knowing all the brown-nose answers, and acing every freaking test the teachers gave.

Then he'd seen the kid changing for gym. The kid was a veteran of the streets, if his scars were any measure of it. He'd watched the kid stand up to Stephen and take more than a few beatings from him, seen him stare down Jimmy, seen him give shit right back to Lorenzo and even be polite to bitch-face Moreena. Jose and Tristan had both seen Sam take out Darian like he was a five-year-old girl when Darian made a crack about Sam's brother. When Sam put him down in like ten seconds, Jose and Tristan decided the Winchester kid had more balls than they thought and stepped up to help him fit in a little better. They'd met his older brother and they thought he was cool for a white dude. Had a kicking old car. Yeah, looked like crap but its engine had a growl any homey could appreciate. Nothing ever seemed to really faze Sam, except maybe getting an answer wrong. But now, as Sam listened to his phone, he was paler than Jose thought a white kid could get.

"What's wrong?" José asked, glancing over at Tristan.

"My brother's not answering his phone," Sam said worriedly and dialed a third time.

"Maybe he's busy?" Tristan offered. He knew if his older brother was banging a babe, he wouldn't be answering no phone.

"Maybe," Sam said and tried to believe it.

_"Yeah. Leave a message."_

"Dean, it's Sammy. Call me as soon as you can." Sam heard the fear in his voice. Dean would probably roll his eyes when he heard the message and, when he called back, he'd tell Sam he was being a wuss and worrying over nothing. Dean could take care of himself.

But it was a whole gang. A gang that was pissed at Dean and a gang that nearly killed Sam yesterday. If Dean hadn't yanked him out of the way, Sam was pretty sure that pipe would have done to his skull what it did to the window. But Dean was Captain-One-Helluva-Big-Brother, right? He'd be okay. He had to be okay. So why wasn't he answering his god-damned phone? On the third call, he almost always answered it, no matter what he was in the middle of. He might answer really pissy, but he'd answer. And he hadn't.

Sam bit his lip. If Dean were really in trouble, really in danger, Caleb would have called, or even been here already. No call, no death visions. Dean was fine.

Reluctantly Sam returned the phone to his pocket and went back to the books. Dean was probably still checking out shelters, maybe talking to someone and couldn't answer. Or he was flirting with a pretty girl. Or loading up the car with their stuff. Or the roads were just too bad and he didn't want to try to answer the phone and risk wrecking. Sam kept ticking off reasons Dean hadn't answered his phone or hadn't called him back yet, trying to convince himself there was nothing to worry about.

Sam fidgeted in his chair. His gaze slid back to the clock every few minutes and he checked his watch repeatedly. Half a dozen times he pulled out his phone and double-checked the battery indicator and made sure he hadn't somehow missed a call. He finally re-focused on the page in front of him in the encyclopedia and realized he'd been re-reading the same couple paragraphs for at least ten minutes and he still didn't have a clue what it said.

Sam looked at his watch yet again. Three-thirty. It was three-thirty and Dean hadn't called. Sam swallowed back his panic.

With trembling hands, Sam pulled out his phone and speed dialed his brother again, praying Dean would pick up this time. He'd take months of ribbing and being called Samantha if Dean would only answer his phone and let Sam know he was okay.

"_Yeah. Leave a message."_

Sam stared at the phone and finally ended the call. Dean was okay. Dean was okay. He repeated that mantra a few times, but his heart just didn't believe him.

"Guys, I gotta go," Sam said and, after putting his phone in his pocket, pushed himself to his feet.

José and Tristan looked at each other. They could both see Sam was freaked over his brother not answering his phone.

"Okay," Tristan said. "We'll get the notes and get the paper started." He glanced at José for agreement. José gave a minute nod. "You okay with finishing it?" Tristan asked.

Sam nodded distractedly. "Yeah. Sure. Monday." Ripping the half page of notes from his notebook, he laid it on the table. "Here's what I've got so far. Look, if my brother shows up, tell him I went home. Either of you got money I could borrow for the bus?"

_Crap,_ Tristan thought. He'd planned on eating at McBarfy's tonight. He sighed to himself. He guessed he could suffer through another night of hot dogs and mac and cheese to help out Winchester. He knew how he'd feel if something happened to his older brother and he knew Winchester and his family were poorer than most in the neighborhood, cell phones from rich uncles not withstanding. (Yeah. Right. If the family ran drugs though, they were sucky at it apparently. They had the Goodwill look down pat.) Tristan dug in his pocket and handed Sam his two dollars. "That enough?"

"I got a buck," José said, tossing it in with Tristan's crumpled bills.

Sam gave them a smile. "Thanks." He knew it was only seventy-five cents for the bus, and knew that both of them knew it as well. They were playing dumb to give Sam extra in case he needed more than one ride. Most of the kids didn't do the sympathy-charity bit, but they could play stupid and offer help in their own way. Sam decided to accept the help since he and Dean might need every penny to get to Jim's. Because Dean was okay. And they were going to go to Jim's on Sunday. They'd sing to Dean's classic rock tapes and eat PB&Js and splurge on some soda-pop. It would be fun, just him and Dean on the road. Because Dean was okay.

Sam shoved his notebook and pen in his backpack and zipped it closed then stuffed the three dollars in his pocket. "I'll pay you guys back on Monday, I promise," he said, hating lying to them. He'd find a way to pay them back. Maybe he could mail the money to the teacher, when they were at Jim's and safe from the Dementors. When Dean was okay.

"Whenever," José said with a wave of his hand.

Tristan nodded. "See you in class."

Sam hefted his backpack over his shoulder and headed toward the exit. It was a five mile walk through some pretty rough neighborhoods and he was grateful Tristan and José lent him the money so he could catch the bus instead. Besides, for as cold as it was, he'd probably have frostbite by the time he made it to the motel.

Hopefully Dean was already in the room, (Dean was okay) maybe asleep on the couch or something. They could get to the mall early (Dean was okay) and bum around. Dean always liked watching the girls and Sam didn't mind watching Dean work his charms on the uptown ladies. Usually if Dean (he was okay) made a decent hookup, he'd give Sam a couple bucks to spend in the arcade, but with them needing the money for gas, Sam would happily go to the arcade and watch others play.

Sam watched for Dean's GTO as he waited at the bus stop. He shoved his hands into his pockets to try to keep them warm. His gloves were in his backpack, but he didn't want to dig them out. He just wanted to get back to the motel. He just needed to see his brother. The little voice in the back of his head was screaming at him now. Dean was in trouble. (No, Dean was okay. He was okay.)

Sam was startled when the bus pulled up to the curb, all his focus on the drive leading to the library. Sam bit his lip and gave the driveway a last look then climbed onto the bus, putting in a dollar and getting back a quarter that he shoved in his pocket. There was a seat right behind the driver and Sam slid into it. As soon as he sat down, he dialed Dean. Voicemail. He began chewing on his thumbnail again.

He had to distract himself. Dean was okay. Smiling a little to himself, he admitted he was still surprised that his brother had done honest, real work just to get him a birthday present. He wondered what Dean was going to get him. He always tried to get Sam something special. Dean was the most awesome brother anyone could have…and he hoped to God his awesome brother was safely at the motel flaked out on that nasty brown couch. The lead weight in his stomach belied that hope.

Sam got off the bus at Michelo Street, two blocks from the Starliner. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace. Running was a bad idea in this section of town unless you had no choice. If cops saw you, they thought you'd done something; if the gangs saw you, they marked you as a potential threat or target. In any case, it brought unwanted, sometimes dangerous, attention.

The cold turned his breath into small wisps of smoke and if he'd had to go more than two blocks, he'd have dug out his scarf and hat. Dean had given him the wool hat. (Dean was okay.) The scarf had come from Pastor Jim two years ago. He said he bought it at one of the church money-raising sales and one of the women of the church had hand-knitted it. He hoped it wasn't Mrs. Limson. He really didn't like that old bat. Of course, "old bat" wasn't what Dean called her, though his name for her started with a "B", too. (Dean was okay.)

Breathing a sigh of relief when the turquoise and white dilapidated Starliner came into view, he increased his pace. For as broken down as the old motel looked, he was kind of amazed it wasn't closed. When his father had first pulled into the potholed parking lot, the only reason Sam knew it was still operational was because of the handful of cars scattered about it.

He was almost there. Dean would be there loading up the GTO. Or asleep on the couch. He'd be okay. Dean was okay.

Sam walked around the corner and froze. Dean's car wasn't there. No! Dean was okay, dammit! He had to be. Maybe the car broke down. Maybe Dean left it someplace to throw off the Dementors while he finished pulling their stuff together. Sam hurried to the room, still clutching hope to him.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, as he entered the room. His eyes shot to the couch, to the chairs at the kitchen table, to the kitchen itself. He rushed into the bedroom, into the bathroom, even looked in the closet because sometimes Dean could be such a jerk and he liked to jump out and scare the bejeezus out of Sammy and then Sammy would hit him or throw something at him or wrestle with him or-or-or …oh, God. No. Sam felt his breath hitch as the tears tried to leak out.

Dean wasn't there.

The backpack and duffels they'd stuffed the night before and the smaller bags ready to be shoved in to replace the school books in their smaller backpacks still lay piled against the aged plaster wall. Sam let his backpack slide from his shoulders to land on the floor with a thud as he pulled out his phone and called Dean again.

_Please answer. God, please answer, Dean. Please answer._

_"Yeah. Leave me a message."_

He wrapped his arms around himself. Dean was okay. Dean was okay.

"No. He's not," Sam whispered.

What should he do? What if the Dementors had Dean?

_And who else would? _Sam thought darkly. _The police?_ Dean wouldn't do anything stupid today—unless he had no choice. Maybe he was in a car accident. Maybe he was at the hospital. The police or the hospital would make him turn off his cell phone, right? Unless Dean was unconscious, he'd have found a way to get a message to Sam.

_Who am I kidding?_ Sam thought. _The Dementors have him. Juarez jumped him and dragged him off to wherever Juarez calls home…or he already…no. No. Dean's alive. _

But what could he, a pudgy twelve-year-old do against them?

_Suck it up_, he told himself firmly and straightened. He'd been taught all his life how to protect himself against most anything. Now it was time to give Dean payback for all the times he'd stood between Sam and some bully or some supernatural beast, shoving the smaller boy behind him, daring the evil whatever to just try and touch his little brother. In order to protect Sam, Dean would tear them apart with his bare hands if he had to. It was Sam's turn to help Dean and he wouldn't let his big brother down. He couldn't.

Since salt obviously wouldn't do him much good in this case, he'd need other weapons, those made out of hardened steel, cold iron, and copper and lead. He was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful to his father for every lap John had made him run, every long hour he'd insisted Sam spend target practicing, every hour he'd spent learning hand-to-hand combat and knife fighting. If his father had only listened though, listened and heard his children begging him to get them out of here, Dean wouldn't be missing and Sam wouldn't have to be thankful for every moment of training that had been forced upon him through the years. He wasn't sure if his gratefulness outweighed his rage, but he did know if Dean was hurt, he was going to give his father a cussing out like the man had never had before.

Going into the bedroom, he reached under the lumpy bed and dragged the box out from beneath it. Dean had said he wanted to wait to pack up this last stuff. Fact was, Sam knew Dean didn't want the contents sitting in the big duffel out in plain sight. He spun open the combination lock and pulled out the Colt .45 his father had given him five years ago. He hesitated then put it back in the box and picked up Dean's pearl-handled 9mm instead. It was smaller and easier to shoot. Slipping the shoulder holster on, he tightened the straps to fit his much smaller frame, then checked the gun's clip to ensure it was full. He slid the clip back in and holstered the gun, snapping the strap over it. On the top of the bed was Dean's old Levi coat. It was easily big enough to hide the bulge of the gun. After shrugging into the oversize jacket, he shoved his pocketknife into his front right jean's pocket. Both of Dean's boot knives lay in the box, the regular one and the silvered one. Sam thought Dean wore his boot knife everywhere. He strapped the regular boot knife around his ankle and pulled his sock up over it. Looking in the box, he decided it couldn't hurt to grab the lighter fluid and the Zippo lighter. Dean always said to be prepared. He chewed on his thumbnail and decided one more knife wouldn't hurt. Choosing Dean's switchblade for the final weapon he slid it in the front left pocket of the coat. He grabbed two bandanas, too. Okay. Three knives. Fire. Gun. Bandanas for wrapping a bad wound.

A wadded up bit of green caught his attention. It was obviously money, probably the money Dean had made for Sam's birthday present. He uncrinkled the ball and found a twenty and a ten. He frowned. That would have been enough to stall the motel until Sunday when Dad was suppose to be back, though they would need it for gas if John didn't show. Sam's stomach knotted. Dean was worried enough about the Dementors he hadn't wanted to risk staying at the Starliner the few extra days, Sam was almost certain of it. Why the hell hadn't they just bailed this morning? What hadn't Sam forced the issue?

Because they both believed Dean would be able to avoid them.

Sam folded the money over and stuck it in with his pocketknife. He saw the lock picks and felt like smacking himself for almost forgetting them. He put them in the inside pocket of the coat along with his cell phone, after switching the ringer over to vibrate. He surveyed the remaining items in the box. He had everything he could think of—no, he didn't. It would suck out loud if he had to shoot his and Dean's way out of Dementor territory and he ran out of bullets. Both Dad and Dean would ream the hell out him for that rookie mistake. He slid two extra clips into his pockets, then checked to see if he had anything that knocked against each other and made noise that might give him away if he had to move silently. No. All was good. He shut the box, spun the combination lock, and shoved it back under the bed.

The best place to start would be Dean's school, he decided. It was only a mile away and he had a good few hours before the sun set. The next bus with a route near the school wouldn't be by for a good half hour and in that time, he could be at the school. He tried Dean's number again.

_"Yeah. Leave me a message."_

Bundling himself up against the cold, he left the motel room and began walking, setting himself a brisk pace, both to speed his arrival at the school and to help fight off the cold. The sun was still shining brightly and there wasn't much of a wind, both of which helped keep the younger Winchester warm.

Twenty minutes later he reached the school and hurried to the student parking lot. Dean's GTO sat abandoned, all four of the car's tires slashed and the locks jammed with bits of metal. Someone made sure Dean couldn't escape in the GTO. _Not just someone_, Sam thought, panic tightening his chest, _the Dementors._

He walked up to the school and was surprised to see a few boys playing basketball. The court was snowy and icy and it seemed far too cold for a game of hoops, but maybe they'd know something.

"Hey, any of you seen Dean Winchester?" Sam called out as he approached the court.

One of the boys finished his jump shot and looked over at Sam. "Why you looking for him?"

"He's dating my sister. She sent me looking to see if he was here."

The boy shook his head. "Nah. Rifleman bailed at lunch time I think. Didn't see him this afternoon in class."

"Isn't that his car over there?" Sam asked, jerking his thumb toward the forlorn car.

The boy looked. "Dunno."

Sam hesitated then asked. "You know where the Dementors hang?"

Another boy snorted. "Rifle won't be with that group. Juarez and him, they have a real war going on between them." He tucked the basketball under his arm. "Just a matter of time before Rifle loses. I hear Juarez hangs out around Tiger's, over on Ninth."

"You friends with Rifle?" Sam asked. If they were, Sam hoped maybe they'd help him look for Dean.

"He's all right," the first boy said. "Little too goody-goody to survive long around here. But he sure can fight." The group of four boys began laughing then turned away from Sam and went back to their game.

Sam watched them a minute longer and seeing that he wasn't going to get anything more from them, he headed for Ninth Street. It was a place to start at least, and more than he had a few minutes prior.

As the sun continued its steadfast descent, Sam walked up and down Ninth Street, asking at Tiger's, asking at every store and even asking some passersby. No one had seen Juarez and his gang since early morning. Sam sat down on the icy curb, his head in his hands. It was almost six o'clock. Six o'clock! How many hours had those bastards had Dean? What might they be doing to his older brother? He pulled out his cell phone and tried Dean again.

_"Yeah. Leave me a message."_

Sam barely held back his tears. Dean needed him. He couldn't break down and start bawling. He wouldn't be any good to his brother. All those times his brother had been there for him, he had to—he just _had_ to—find a way to be there for Dean.

"What's the matter, kid?" a man asked.

Sam jumped to his feet and looked around, his hand sliding inside his jacket instinctively, fingers wrapped around the gun butt and thumb ready to free the restraining strap. An old black man with a bag from the local grocers wrapped around his wrist and leaning on a wooden cane stood watching him.

Sam swallowed and took his hand back out of the jacket. "My brother. I think…I think he's in trouble. I—I can't find him."

The old man pursed his lips and slowly nodded. "That's a problem. Older or younger brother?"

"Older."

The man continued to nod. "He into things likely to give him trouble?"

"No, sir," Sam said and gulped back the tears. "But-but, he's pissed off the Dementors. A lot. The Dementors said they were going to take him down today. I think they ha-have," Sam choked on the words, swallowed and tried again. "The Dementors. They have him. I know they do. But I can't find where they are, where they might-might take him. I've gotta find him. I've just gotta. He's my brother. I've gotta," Sam said desperately.

The old man looked into the terrified eyes of the boy. "Ah. That bunch. Bad lot of them." The man's gaze dropped to the pavement as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Well, I hear tell their place is back on Eighth. The old Shumacker warehouse. That's just rumor of course. Nothing I'd know anything about."

Sam stood frozen a moment until the information percolated into his frightened thoughts. Dean! He had a chance to find him! "Thank-thank you, sir," Sam whispered back and dashed down the street toward Eighth.

He didn't care that he was running, that people noticed. The Dementors could have had Dean for six hours now. God. _Six hours_. Dean could be ….dead.

No! He refused that possibility. Dean was strong. Dean could take anything those bastards could dish out. He was going to find Dean standing over the fallen gang, blood dripping from his face, but his delighted grin firmly in place. Captain-One-Helluva-Big-Brother could beat anyone. He hugged that reassuring thought close and tried very hard to believe it.

He cautiously turned the corner on Eighth. He slowed his walk to a bare crawl, shuffling his feet in the snow as his eyes scanned the road ahead. Most of the shops on this block of the street—an old television repair shop, a garage, a café, a bar—were boarded up. A small grocery store and, a little further down, a pawn shop were the only two survivors of better times. Halfway down the street, past rusting heaps of cars that Sam was sure couldn't be functioning, yet the licenses indicated they were still actively trundling the roads, was the warehouse. It sat right up against the road, dark red brick blackened with age and pollution. High windows were smoked, or so dust-coated they might as well be, and were sprinkled with the delicate lace of glittering ice crystals. Most of its windows were surprisingly intact. An alley ran between the hulk of the building and the closed bar. A few people walked these streets, some heading to their dilapidated apartments above the closed stores and a few homeless wanderers looking for salvageable scraps that might help keep the cold at bay as the setting sun took its meager warmth with it.

Sam walked with enough determination to mark himself as unapproachable. At least he hoped he did. Reaching the alley, he surreptitiously glanced down it. The warehouse was so tall that the alley was wrapped in deep shadows. He could see it had once been more than an alley; it had been a delivery drive that led back to the warehouse and parking lot. In the twilight, he peered up at the worn and weathered lettering on the side of the building. Shumacker's had once been a manufacturing and shipping warehouse for nautical supplies. After he confirmed no one had taken notice of him, he headed into the shadows, the loss of the sun making the air that much colder. He stuffed his gloves into an empty pocket as he slid his hand inside his coat to rest on the gun. He wished he'd brought Dean's hunting knife, the one Dean kept under his pillow. It was too big to easily conceal, so he knew he was wise to leave it, but he knew it made his brother feel safe, and he could sure use his brother's cocky confidence right now. Sam could face ghosts, werewolves, witches, even zombies and skinwalkers. But Juarez's gang made his blood run cold.

Plastering himself against the wall of the warehouse, he crept down the long alley. Tire ruts led up the lane, a set of footprints traveling inside one rut. He strained to hear nearby sounds but noises seemed to come from everywhere, the tall walls making sounds bounce eerily while the snow muffled the noises into strange murmurs. None of the sounds were what he was listening for. He heard a woman screeching at her husband, a baby's cry, the rumble of a souped-up car, even the distant wail of sirens. But not Dean.

The end of the alley opened onto a snow-covered parking lot. The snow leading into the parking lot was trampled and splotches of blood reddened it. His stomach clenched tighter as he studied the convoluted tracks. The person who'd been walking along the tire ruts had fallen onto their butt in the snow. A larger area was crushed flat and a multitude of footprints surrounded that area, the blood spatters in the center of that trampled spot. Best guess from the amount of blood suggested to Sam the blood was from a nose bleed or, at least, only a minor wound. Tracks indicated someone was dragged from the area, occasional droplets of blood mixed in with the tracks.

A rusted lime-green Cadillac was the only vehicle parked at the warehouse docks. The warehouse's wooden garage doors were closed against the elements as was a metal pedestrian door on the far side. Sam skulked up to the Cadillac. The doors were unlocked and he saw trash littering the insides. He bit his lip. The car—he wondered if it belonged to Juarez—might be useful if Dean was hurt and they had to make a quick getaway. After glancing around to confirm he was alone, he climbed inside. The car reeked of cheap cologne. Sam quickly set up the ignition for a fast, hotwired start then slid back out, quietly closing the heavy door. The car ready if needed, he scuttled over to the metal entry door and peeked in its window. Only dark shadows greeted him. Swallowing hard, he cautiously tried the door and was almost surprised to find it unlocked. He felt both elation and terror. Elation that Juarez's gang was probably here. Terror that Dean might be as well.

He opened the door and winced when it creaked loudly enough to alert anyone within in a six block radius. He slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as he could and dashed over to shadows far from the door. He paused there, trying to control his breathing and waiting to see if his entry had indeed alerted anyone. He counted slowly as Dean had taught him, counting up to three hundred. No one came to investigate and he didn't hear any noises other than his own soft, tightly controlled breathing. Feeling a little more confident that he was alone, he walked deeper into the warehouse, weaving among broken machinery and debris from years past. A little niggling voice asked him what he'd do if this turned out to be another wild goose chase. Then he'd keep looking, he told himself firmly. He'd find his brother, no matter what.

The sounds of distant laughter made him freeze momentarily. He moved more cautiously, but determinedly toward the sounds. He finally got close enough to see people in an area illuminated by the last rays of the sun filtering in through the high windows and a few bare-bulbed lamps. A couple of tables were scattered around, as well as some beat up and ripped couches, mattresses, chairs, and space heaters. Sam eased closer in an effort to see what the group was doing.

His breath caught in his chest. Dean was there.

--

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

_Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**_

_Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU._

**_This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. _**

**_After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. _**

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter. _

**Rating: M.** Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

**Readers, this is one of the chapters that earned this story its "M" rating. Although I attempt to address it delicately, it's still fairly vicious and dark.**

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! Thanks to my regular beta and my guest beta Megan.Casady. They both contribute such wonderful corrections to the chapter!

See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 9**

_I can see the future boiling up around, I'm so afraid.  
__Someone told to make her half a girl, she used to be alive.  
__I can feel the fire, crawling on you like you're superman.  
__But I would pay to watch you burn._

_-Serial Killer, Cold_

**Then:  
**_March 18__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam stood frozen by the horror of what he saw.

Dean was naked and half lying on a table, his arms handcuffed behind him. And they were—Juarez was….Sam swallowed back his disgust. He felt his tears and wiped them away angrily as he pulled out his gun. This ended. _Now._

He stepped out, gun held tightly in his hand, and stalked forward. "Get away from my brother!" Sam shouted at them.

Silence fell over the group. Juarez gave Dean a few more hard pumps, then pulled out, carefully situated himself, zipped up his pants, and turned to face Sam.

"Well, if it isn't Dean-O's little brother. With a gun of his own," Juarez sneered.

"Get away from him," Sam snarled, pointing the gun at Juarez. A few of the gang started to circle around. "Stop moving or I'll kill him," Sam said, refusing to let the gun's muzzle shift from the bastard who'd been sodomizing his brother.

Juarez still had a smirk on his face. "So you're going to walk your brother out of here, are you?"

"Damn right I am. And no one is going to stop me," Sam said calmly.

"Really?" Juarez said and nodded once to one of his buddies, a teenager standing by Dean holding a pipe in his hand.

Sam didn't want to think what that pipe might have been used for. Too late, Sam realized the teen's intent when the teen said, "Here you go, _Dean_," and slammed the pipe into Dean's thigh. Dean's scream echoed in the warehouse. In his gut, Sam knew Dean's thigh was fractured; be it a hairline or a complete fracture, it was broken all the same.

"So how are you going to walk him out of here, now, little man?" Juarez grinned.

The gang burst into laughter and Sam's face contorted in fury. Hunters didn't kill humans. That was the rule. But Juarez, he didn't count as human in Sam's mind anymore. So long as Juarez lived, Sam would have no chance to rescue his brother.

Sam's finger tightened on the trigger.

A half-empty beer bottle careened into Sam's temple and the shot, its report booming, went wide and the gun was knocked from his hand. Almost of its own accord, the switchblade was in Sam's right hand, snicked open and slashing at his attackers. When one boy grabbed Sam's arm, Sam twisted free, smashed his elbow into the boy's diaphragm, and then brought his fist up to slam into the boy's face. Sam felt the boy's blood spurt down the back of his hand to run down his arm.

He cut someone's hands as he dodged another's grasp. Sliding his foot behind the leg of his newest attacker, he planted his shoulder in the boy's chest and the kid tumbled back onto the floor. A fist planted just below his shoulder blade made Sam stumble forward and his right wrist was grabbed. When he tried to wrench free, the larger teen's grip proved too strong. Sam shifted so he faced the teen and dove between the boy's legs feet first. His weight and momentum carried both his arm and the boy's hand into the boy's crotch. The teen doubled over in pain while Sam cursed as his switchblade slipped from his fingers.

A booted foot smashed into Sam's ribs and he felt an explosion of pain; he knew he'd just had at least one rib cracked. He rolled to his feet, grinding his teeth against the pain. The adrenaline would keep the pain at a minimum and he'd fought against beasts when he was in worse shape. As he got to his feet, he pulled free the lighter fluid and, flicking open the spout, squirted it at those around him. His other hand extracted the Zippo lighter and in a fluid movement slammed the lighter on the side of his leg to flip open the lid, then yanked it back up, spinning the wheel against his jeans and igniting the lighter. He tossed the Zippo into a decent sized puddle of fluid and with a whoosh, the fluid ignited, snaking toward anyone close enough and soaked enough in fluid to offer the flame a meal. Shouts and cries erupted as the gang members afire attempted to extinguish the flames.

A girl came at him and landed a punch on his jaw. Sam let the momentum carry him around and back-fisted the girl hard enough that she staggered. The pipe across his back put Sam on his knees. He barely blocked the first kick to his face, but then they were on him. Even as well trained as he was, a lone twelve-year-old was no match for several teenagers with long-honed street skills. It took two of the largest Dementors to hold his squirming form as they dragged him to Juarez. Blood ran from Sam's nose and from several gashes on his face.

"Two for the price of one," Juarez said. He smiled at Sam. "You tried to shoot me."

"I'll kill you," Sam said evenly, leveling a deadly glare on the leader of the Dementors.

Juarez's smile faltered just a moment as he saw something deep in Sam's eyes that cut through even his thick armor. He slammed his fist into Sam's gut. Sam's eyes widened as he tried to regain the air knocked out of him. His diaphragm struggled to work and draw air back in. Punches rained across his back and into his stomach until he hung in the teenagers' arms like a ragdoll.

"Let him watch his big brother, so he knows just what's in store for him," Juarez said.

The boys dragged Sam to a chair and searched him, finding his cell phone, Dean's thirty dollars, the two extra clips for the gun, the lock picks, the bandanas, and Sam's pocketknife. After tossing his supplies onto a nearby table, they tied him with rope to the chair. Sam found some small comfort that they'd missed the boot knife. He still had that, at least. He slowly clenched and unclenched his fists as he began to try to stretch the ropes for leeway to escape.

"You see, little man," Juarez said, "I don't like it when someone challenges my authority. Dean here," he kicked Dean's broken leg and Dean screamed again, "he did that. So I have to make an example of him. Like I made of the bitch." He pointed to Isabelle's still form on the ground. Blood pooled around her cooling body. She'd been slit open from her lower abdomen up to her sternum and her insides bulged out gruesomely as her glazed, dead eyes stared at his brother. Sam had to swallow back the bile at the terrible sight. "And you, little man, tried to shoot me," Juarez continued. "I can't have that, not in front of my gang. They might think I'm not cut out to be their leader. And believe me. I am."

"You cock-sucking son of a bitch," Dean moaned, his words slurred.

Juarez turned back to Dean and dropped his pants. "Yeah, let's finish what we started, eh, Dean?"

Sam tried to look away, but the knife held at his throat forced him to watch as one of the girls primed Juarez. Juarez, and then three others, satisfied their needs with Dean. They dragged Dean back to a chair and he choked out cries of pain as they moved him. Sam could see Dean's right arm and hand were clearly broken, the handcuff on that wrist loosened to its first notch, but it still bit into his swollen flesh. His back was a rainbow of bruises and coated with streaks of both fresh and dried blood. When they moved away from Dean, Sam saw his brother's chest wasn't any better, and there were wicked burns on Dean's stomach. His lips looked cracked and swollen, maybe even burned themselves. A bandana was wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold.

Space heaters were moved closer to Dean and one of the girls caressed his groin. "Can't have you all shriveled up. We got too many plans for you."

Dean spit in her face.

Sam tightened his jaw and fought back his tears. Juarez saw the look of horror in Sam's face and delightedly began Dean's torture anew. Each time before Juarez hit Dean, he said Dean's name. Dean responded with slurred retorts, sometimes a smile sliding to his lips when it was obvious his words had incited a particularly brutal retaliation.

_Will you shut your damned mouth, Dean!_ Sam thought desperately, but was so proud of his brother. No matter what they did, Dean threw it in their faces that he was still stronger than they were. Sam vowed he'd show that same strength.

Juarez turned to Sam a half hour later when Dean was all but unconscious.

"Guess it's your turn, little man," Juarez said, wiping Dean's blood from his hands. "Let's start the night off right."

Juarez motioned to two of his boys and to the table where he'd raped Dean.

"What's the matter, can't get it up for a girl?" Sam snarled at him.

Juarez strode over and stared down at Sam. "It's got absolutely nothing to do with sexual pleasure, little man. It's got everything to do with power. I can do anything to him," he jerked a thumb toward Dean, "and anything to you. If I want you to suck my cock, you will."

"Sure. Be happy to," Sam said, giving him a sinister smile.

Juarez wrapped his fingers in Sam's hair. "That'll come later, when your big brother is conscious enough to watch, conscious enough to scream if you give me anything but the finest of blow jobs." He grinned when he saw the look in Sam's eyes. "But right now? Right now some of my boys want a tight ass. Nothing like virgin ass, little man." Juarez released Sam's hair and straightened. "Have at him, boys."

Two gang members untied Sam and dragged him over to the table. Sam was pulled across it and his pants pulled down. He cried out in pain and fury when they did to him what they'd done to Dean. When they'd finished and started to pull Sam back to his feet, Sam twisted his arm free, Dean's overlarge jacket giving him squirm room. He grabbed his pants, pulled them up, and ran for all he was worth. Shouts followed him as he dodged into the dark. The sun had long since set and the warehouse's interior was dark, the high windows splashing snow-reflected light that chased blackness into grey shadows.

Circling around, Sam looked back on the remaining gang members, trying to sort out what they were doing and if he had any hope of getting Dean out. The adrenaline made the painful bruises, the cracked rib he was fairly certain he had, and the damaged, more tender areas little more than annoyances. Nothing mattered but his brother. Break both his legs and Sam would still crawl, pulling himself on his elbows if he had to, to find a way to save the brother who had always been his protector.

He saw Juarez beating Dean anew. Dammit! Juarez wasn't going to leave Dean to come after Sam. Sam would have to find another way. If only they hadn't taken his cell phone! He still had the boot knife, but one boot knife against all of them—it was a no-brainer. He'd lose. Hell, he couldn't even take them when he had a gun. Dad had always told him the police were a last resort, but he didn't see that he had a choice. There were just too many. He heard movement nearby and slid further back among the machinery and debris, pulling the boot knife out and holding it at the ready.

A blond girl came into view, scanning for signs of the young Winchester. Sam watched, motionless, as she passed by his niche. Once she was well past him, he eased out and padded silently to another group of machinery. He carefully made his way along the equipment, mindful that a misstep in the debris might give his location away. He heard a few of the Dementors pass frustrated words to one another and he smiled to himself. He'd played hide and seek with some of the finest hunters and even a psychic; a handful of thugs shouldn't be a problem. He moved to the next batch of machinery. There were noises behind him and to his right and growing closer. He dodged up to the next flock of decrepit apparatus.

"There he is!" a girl shouted.

Sam cursed his light-colored flannel and broke into a full run. He finally veered into the shadows and stopped, plastering himself against a massive machine. When a Dementor turned the corner, he spotted Sam and lunged for him.

Sam sliced at him with Dean's boot knife, leaving a thin crimson line on the boy's arm. The teen jerked back in surprise then came at Sam more cautiously, a grin on his face. "You're going to be as much fun as your brother was," the gang member said. He swung a fist at Sam.

Sam ducked and sliced, clipping the teen's side. A second Dementor rounded the corner. "The little brother's not as good as pretty boy was, is he? Dean-O kept us hunting a lot longer."

Sam kept the machine to his back, but knew it was only a matter of time before more Dementors arrived. To make a run for it, he needed to slow them down in the process. Sam feinted left then dove between the two. Rolling to a crouch, he swung the knife in an arc, hamstringing the first arrival and following through to deeply gash the other Dementor in the side of his knee. Their howls of pain were satisfying, but he wanted to hear them scream the way his brother had screamed. He used his blade to cut a bloody trough up the back of the second Dementor then slashed a long diagonal gash across the back of the boy with the scarred face, a new scar to remember the Winchesters by. Sam turned, and ran. Further revenge would have to wait. He had to move before more Dementors arrived.

Sam held his arm against his injured rib as he veered around the machines and ran hard. The cries of the injured would bring other gang members, but at least those two wouldn't be following Sam anytime soon. Avoiding sounds of the others, he dodged around pieces of machinery, doubled back and zigzagged through the warehouse. He paused in a dark niche to catch his breath and to get his bearings. He had to get out and get help. Juarez might very well be beating Dean to death while Sam played hide and seek. What would he do when he learned Sam had crippled two of his cronies? "He'll take it out on Dean," Sam whispered to himself as he slipped off the empty gun holster, removed his flannel shirt and put the holster back on. He quickly ripped the shirt into strips and, after tying them together, tightly wrapped his ribs.

He knew the injuries to the gang members' legs had been necessary for his escape. The other two slashes had merely been perks and a promise of the revenge Sam swore he'd wreak on these bastards once he knew Dean was safe.

_They played cat and mouse with Dean, too,_ Sam thought. _They caught Dean. They're going to expect they can catch me. I can't let the happen. Dean's depending on me. With a little luck, they'll get cocky and I can use that. Like I just did. Dean probably didn't have the bonus of the dark, but it's making it damned hard to figure a way out of here._

He studied his surroundings and finally chose a direction. He moved slower, placing the sounds he heard into a mental map. He traveled deeper into the warehouse. A broken out bottom window caught his eye. There was a large hulk of a machine that led up that window. It would be a bit of a jump, but he thought he could make it. As he got close to it, he saw dark droplets on the floor and paused long enough to run his finger over a few. Spatters of blood. He knew that blood was his brother's. He looked up at the window and whispered, "It wasn't for nothing, Dean. It's my way out and I'll bring help."

Sam quickly climbed the machinery and made the jump, getting one hand to the window frame and one hand on the ledge. He ground his teeth as glass cut into his palm and his rib shrieked in agony but he doggedly pulled himself up. There was more blood here and it wasn't his. Maybe Dean had made it out the window and they caught him outside and brought him back? Were they likewise waiting for him? _Then I'll just have to be ready to fight my way out,_ Sam thought grimly.

The drop was long, but his Dad and brother had taught him how to roll and not hurt himself. His rib protested the hard jarring but the bandage wrapping his ribs and his continued adrenaline made it tolerable. Sam stood up, pulled free the stowed boot knife, and evaluated his surroundings. The snow was nearly pristine. They'd stopped Dean before he'd gotten out and there were no Dementors waiting for Sam. He kept the bloodied knife gripped in his hand and began running.

He had to get to a phone, and then get back to Dean. Glancing over his shoulder, Sam saw that no one seemed to be following him. He could bring help to rescue his brother. If Juarez hadn't killed him by then. That thought froze Sam's blood colder than the icy temperatures around him could ever hope to and he pushed harder and ran faster. A phone. He needed a god-damned fucking phone. Or a police car. Either would do.

Five blocks away he saw the beckoning lights of a mini-mart and charged inside. "Phone!" he demanded of the cashier, taking no notice of the blood dripping from his wounds or the bloody knife still in his hand.

The attendant pointed to the rear wall. Sam headed for it and dialed 911 as soon as he reached it.

"State the nature of your emergency," a woman said.

"Police. My brother's being beat up by a gang, the Dementors," Sam said, breathing hard. His lungs burned from the cold air. He forced himself to keep his panic under control and tried to slow his breathing. He wanted nothing more than to scream at the dispatcher to get the whole fucking force to the warehouse to rescue his brother before Juarez could do anything else to him, before Juarez could make his brother pay for what Sam had done to two of the gang.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Sam." He looked at his bleeding hand and could see shiny slivers of glass still buried in the wound. _Use any respite you get to tend to your wounds,_ John's voice boomed in his head. After cleaning the boot knife of Dementor blood, he carefully dug glass from his palm, his jaw clenched against the pain.

"Where are they doing this, Sam?"

Her voice was clear and calm, and Sam felt some measure of that calm settle into him "Inside the Shumacker warehouse on Eighth," Sam gritted out as he loosened another piece of glass and extracted it. Help would be on the way any minute.

"How many are there?" she asked.

He could hear the murmur of other dispatchers. "Thirteen, I think. They already killed a girl and they're hurting my brother bad." Remembering the dead girl, a tremor came into Sam's voice. "I think they're going to kill him."

"Don't hang up, Sam," she soothed. "Stay on the line. Understand? I'm going to dispatch some officers, but I'll be right back. Just stay on the line. Okay?"

"I will." Sam leaned against the wall, relief filling him. He prayed the police would arrive quickly and that Dean would still be alive when they reached him. He felt his gut clench as a tiny voice whispered, what if he wasn't? Sam forced himself to return to digging out the last fragments of glass. His brother still needed him. He had to make sure nothing would keep him from helping Dean.

The dispatcher returned to the line about twenty seconds later. "Sam?"

"I'm here," Sam said, cleaning his own blood from the boot knife by wiping it on his jeans and sliding it back into its holster. He realized his shirt was generously splattered with Dementor blood. He knew it shouldn't, but it pleased him beyond measure.

"The police are on their way. Can you give me a better location than just 'the warehouse'?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said, his voice beginning to quaver worse. He fought back his tears and concentrated on calling up the layout of the warehouse. "Go in through the loading docks, turn left and go maybe two hundred feet, turn right at the four pillars and go maybe another hundred feet, then left again near the machine with big metal rollers. After maybe twenty or thirty feet you can see them."

"That's very good, Sam. That helps a lot. Where are you calling from?"

"I dunno. Closest mini-mart I could find. I think I'm on Mercy Lane," Sam said, doubt in his voice.

"Okay, Sam. How badly is your brother hurt?"

Sam felt his tears start, and was disgusted he couldn't keep them at bay. _Report!_ he heard his father demand. John wouldn't approve of Sam's blubbering. Sam took a deep breath to try to steady himself. "They broke his leg and his arm and have been beating on him all day. His stomach looked burned and so did his mouth. You've got to tell them to hurry. I think he might," Sam swallowed hard, "die."

"We'll do our best to make sure that doesn't happen. Are you hurt?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Sam lied. "He needs the help."

"How old is your brother, Sam?"

"Seventeen." Sam sniffled. He hated that he was crying, but he was so scared for his brother. If Dean died, it would be all his fault. He knew he should have tried harder to get Dean to stay home from school. As soon as he had that bad feeling start in his gut after lunch, he should have called Dean again. He should have been able to find Dean sooner. He was the son of one of the best hunters in the Brotherhood, the son of the fucking Knight, for God's sake, and it took him over two damned hours to track Dean down. He was pathetic beyond pathetic. His hands began to shake.

Her voice still calm, the dispatcher asked, "What's his name?"

"Dean."

Her voice took on a more gentle tone as she asked, "How old are you, Sam?"

"Twelve, almost thirteen."

"Okay, Sam, you're doing really well," she said encouragingly. "Let me tell the officers what you told me. Stay on the line, okay? Don't hang up."

"Yes, ma'am."

The dispatcher returned a handful of seconds later. "Okay, Sam—"

"How soon will they be there?" Sam interrupted.

"They're not far. I've also dispatched an ambulance for your brother. Can you tell me what happened?"

"The gang jumped him. I think they've had him since noon or one. He's really hurt."

"Is Dean involved with drugs, Sam?"

"No!" Sam said, his voice getting louder as he defended his brother. "He'd never do anything like that! He stood up to the Dementors, he even broke Juarez's nose, and they want to get back at him for it."

"Okay, Sam—"

"I have to go," Sam said, this time listening to that voice in the back of his head. "I have to be there to help him." Sam hung up the phone, cutting off her protests. He grabbed a large bottle of water and a bag of peanut M&Ms and went to the register. Blood smeared onto his watch's wristband as he pulled it across his cut hand and shoved it into the slot in the enclosure protecting the employee from robbery. The watch wasn't much, but he wasn't about to give up Dean's knife.

"Please, my brother's really hurt. I'll come back and pay you. I promise. You can hold my watch until I do."

The clerk, a young man of about nineteen with a nametag that read "Ramone", studied the twelve year old. Crimson splattered the kid's shirt, smeared his jeans, and streamed in small rivulets down his bruised and cut face, mixing with his tears. The kid's left hand dripped blood and the knife he'd seen the kid enter with was no longer in view. A gun's black shoulder holster, empty, was strapped on the youth. Ramone had heard the boy's side of the conversation. Dementors. He remembered the fear of walking the school halls, praying the Dementors took no notice of him. He remembered the one time they had. Ramone looked at the two-dollar watch lying in the metal slot in front of him. "I hear right, the Dementors have him?"

Sam nodded and wiped at his tears. Ramone unlocked the door to the protective enclosure and exited, pocketing a key. He grabbed a bottle of water from the bin by the register, took a box of bandages off the shelf and a roll of scotch tape. He pulled a pack of 4x4 gauze from the box and motioned at Sam's hand. Sam held his hand out, his brow furrowed. After Ramone poured the icy water over Sam's hand, he covered the wound with the 4x4 and wrapped the scotch tape around his hand a few times. Sam stood motionless, long trained to stand so as Dean or John tended his injuries. Soaking another 4x4, Ramone wiped the blood and tears from Sam's face and after studying the cuts, he put a Band-aid on one.

"That's the worst one," he said, straightening up. "Kid, zip up your fly," he tossed back at Sam as he went to the enclosure, grabbed a bag, then returned to Sam's side. After dropping in Sam's desired purchases, the supplies he'd just appropriated and a small can of mace, Ramone handed Sam the bag and returned Sam's watch. "Go on, I've got this," Ramone said. "Good luck. I hope your brother's okay."

Sam stared in surprise at him. "T-thanks," he stammered and ran out the door, clutching the bag to his chest as he headed back toward the warehouse.

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TBC.


	10. Chapter 10

_Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M**._

_Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU._

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter. _

**Rating: M. Warning**. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! Thanks to my beta for her excellent suggestions!

See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 10**

_I'll take you by the hand,  
__And I'll show you a world that you can understand.  
__This life is filled with hurt,  
__When happiness doesn't work.  
__Trust me and take my hand,_

_  
__I know that you're wounded.  
__You know that I'm here to save you.  
__You know I'm always here for you.  
__I know that you'll thank me later._

_--Pain, Three Days Grace_

**Now:  
**_May 14__th__, Louisville, KY_

Darling popped open the rear door to the ambulance once Priscilla had put it in park and he heard her call dispatch to let them know they'd arrived. He stepped down to the pavement and gave a wave to his partner as Pongo pulled the cruiser in behind the ambulance, careful to leave enough room for the crew to get the cot out. While Darling walked over to his partner, the two medics pulled the cot out of the ambulance.

Priscilla smiled down at Taz. "How you doing there?" she asked their patient. The teen had regained some of his color but he still seemed withdrawn. She tried to decide if the look on his face was one of anger or fear and decided it was a bit of both. He looked so lost, she wanted to lay her hand on his arm and tell him everything would be okay. He'd flinched from her touch once before so she forced herself to keep her hands on the cold railing of the cot instead of trying to offer him comfort. She adjusted the woolen blanket up a little higher for him to keep away the chill, and even that made him jump. "Sorry," she said softly. "I didn't want you getting cold."

Dean turned his face from the female medic and didn't answer. He was at the hospital which meant the psych ward wasn't far off. The silvery handcuff attached to the railing glimmered dully in the light and he cursed his stupidity for showing them he could get out of the restraints. He should have bided his time and then made his break from the hospital.

_But they were going to give me drugs, _he reminded himself. _That's why I did it. To stop them. _Dean knew he'd have failed in that, too, if Darling hadn't stepped in. He failed at everything now-a-days. His legacy. The boy who failed.

No matter if it hurt like hell, he _could_ get his right wrist free. He just had to find a piece of metal to pick the lock of the handcuff on his left wrist. After he had that bit of metal, he'd wait until there weren't people around. Once free, he'd run until he found a nice dark place where no one would find him to stop him. He wouldn't stand out in public ready to try to end his life. No, he'd screwed up doing that. The nightmares had clouded his thoughts and his common sense. So desperate to shut out the screams, the guilt, and the self-recriminations, he hadn't been able to think of anything other than getting to the top of bridge and its offer of eternal peace. He couldn't even walk off a bridge without fucking it up. But he'd be smarter next time. He wouldn't let his fear blind him, wouldn't let himself slip into the past and the horror of the warehouse. His next attempt at suicide wouldn't be a mere attempt. He'd succeed.

"Took you a while to get going," Pongo said to Darling, leaning against the car door as he tried to take some of the weight off his knee. It was aching more and growing stiffer as time passed. "Problems?"

"The kid," Darling paused and gave a sigh as he raked his hand through his brown hair, "he's still having trouble staying in the present, I think. Taz really freaked when Greg tried to put in the IV. Taz even got one hand out of the restraints and punched Greg in the face." Darling watched as Priscilla and Greg rolled the cot toward the hospital doors.

Dean twisted his head and saw Darling talking with his partner. Resisting the urge to call out to the cop, he bit his lip. Darling had said he'd stay with Dean, keep him safe. Well, Dean had known it was a lie; Darling was just saying that to keep him calm. Blinking furiously, he fought back his tears. He didn't want to be alone in the hospital but he was being abandoned again. He was too worthless for anyone to care about.

Pongo gave a soft whistle at the teen's attempted escape. "You should have called it in."

"We had it covered between the two of us," Darling said. "Taz was still restrained otherwise, though it was a bitch getting his wrist back into the restraint. Taz was convinced Greg was going to give him drugs. Quite a panic attack it gave him." Darling smiled ruefully. "Guess it's a good bet the kid's not on drugs."

"Sounds like he needs to be," Pongo said, glancing at his watch. They still had about half their shift left. He knew the answer to his next question but asked anyhow. "Are you staying or calling in relief?" Darling was a sucker for lost puppies. Admittedly, everyone wanted him on any call dealing with a traumatized kid. Darling had a way with kids like few others on the force.

Darling laughed at the look on Pongo's face. "You know I'm staying. No telling when he'll be admitted and out of our custody. I'll need my handcuffs back anyhow."

Pongo rolled his eyes. "I saw the cuff on the rail. That's one way to keep his wrist in the restraint," Pongo said.

"Yeah, well fool me once."

"He's still got one other hand, you know."

"I don't think he can get his right arm free. I think that shoulder hurts him too much. I saw him wince when he tested that restraint. Catching him as he jumped was probably as rough on his shoulder as it was on mine."

"You hurt your shoulder?" Pongo asked. It was petty and he knew it, but damn, Darling was their pitcher on the softball team. Wampler was Darling's back up and he couldn't throw a slider if someone held a gun to his head.

"Let's just say I know I caught the kid, and I'm really going to know it tomorrow." He rolled his shoulder, feeling the tightness in it. "I'm going to have some nice bruising across my stomach where his weight pulled me into the barrier, too. I think all three of us suffered collateral damage from his suicide attempt."

"I won't argue that," Pongo snorted. His own shoulders were aching from where they'd hauled the struggling kid up and over, but his knee made his shoulder seem trivial. He really hoped he hadn't screwed up his knee. That was the knee he'd torn up playing soccer and he had to sit out the second half of the season his senior year because of it. Pongo pointed at his partner's bandaged hand. "I thought the football star just scraped them up. Or did the kid bite you or something?"

"Ah, they're fine." Darling said with a wave of dismissal. "This one," he held up his bandaged hand, "hit a rock and it dug in a little deep. Nothing worse than the smacked knuckles I get when I'm working on the house. "

Pongo opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat. He picked up the ice pack and put it back on his knee. "You find out who the kid is?"

"Pretty sure he's that runaway, Matt Winchester," Darling said. "Not that he's 'fessed up to it yet." He glanced through the glass doors that led to the emergency room. He couldn't see the cot. "I better catch up with them or the kid's going to freak again. He's decided to latch on to me."

"What a surprise," Pongo said.

Darling gave him a sour look. "You're just jealous he likes me more."

"Just proves what we figured. He's a nutcase," Pongo said with a grin.

With a laugh, Darling said, "Yeah, and who's going to get stuck with the rookie for the rest of the shift? Or did you forget Fellers called in sick."

Pongo groaned. "Crap. If he were any greener, he'd have to be mowed once a week."

"Tell dispatch I'm taking guard duty and am out of service here." Darling's tone grew serious. "You have one of the ER docs take a look at that knee."

"After I park the cruiser I'm going to do just that. Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll make me take the rest of the night off." Pongo paused and gave his partner a hard look. "You be careful of that one, Pete. Don't forget he's dangerous, no matter how much he plays the lost puppy. He's the kind that'll slit your throat as soon as look at you."

"Yes, Mother," Darling said, "but I really don't think he's dangerous to anyone except for himself."

Pongo gave him a glare. "Yeah, that's what you said about that Bertolli kid. How many stitches did you get out of that incident?"

Darling scowled. They'd missed finding a knife on the kid and Darling had discovered that the hard way. "Forty-five. Okay. Point taken."

"Good," Pongo said smugly. "Now watch your ass with him."

"Yeah, yeah," Darling said as he headed for the hospital entrance.

The medics rolled Dean deeper inside the hospital. The lights seemed uncommonly bright and he shut his eyes, wanting to ignore the world and pretend it didn't exist. To pretend he didn't exist. He heard nurses and doctors talking and the drone of a radio as someone communicated with an incoming ambulance crew. He felt the cot stop and scrape against a wall. When someone laid their hand on his arm, he tried to pull away.

"Hey, Taz, you doing okay?" Darling asked.

Dean's eyes flew open. "You-you came back," he whispered.

Darling chuckled but saw the look on Taz's face and winced to himself. He shouldn't have left the kid's side for so long. "Of course. I said I'd stick with you."

Dean nodded mutely, feeling the tears slide down his cheek.

"Hey, c'mon. You'll ruin your image with all the pretty nurses." Darling wiped away his tears.

"Caleb," Dean said, his voice thick with emotion, "he says women like it when a guy shows emotion. Makes the girls think you're vulnerable."

"Is Caleb your brother, too?" Darling asked.

Dean shook his head and sniffed, trying to keep his nose from running. "Best friend."

"Can you stay with him, Pete?" Greg asked giving a nod over to the nurses' station. He needed to hand over the report and fill them in.

"Yeah, I've got him," Darling said and gave a brief smile down at Taz. _The kid looks frightened half to death._ "This is good hospital, Taz. You can relax." He glanced over to where the medics stood talking and saw Priscilla examining the resulting bruise Greg was getting from Taz's punch.

"Hang on just a second, Taz," Darling said with a wink and he stepped over to the counter and grabbed a tissue, returning back to Taz's side. "I know it sucks and makes you feel like a five year old," Darling said and held up the tissue, "but…?"

Dean gave a hesitant nod. God, he was such a loser. He blew his nose into the offered tissue. At least he wouldn't have snot running down the side of face.

"Will you stay?" Dean asked Darling, his voice barely louder than a whisper, hating his feeling of helplessness amid the strangers. He hated even more that he felt the need of Darling's presence. The hospital brought to a head too many terrible memories and he felt himself begin to tremble. He wanted out. Out of the restraints, out of the hospital, out of everything. He wanted Sammy or even his father to come striding through the ER doors and find him, save him from the horrible nightmare his life had become. He hated, most of all, that he was scared. More scared than he'd been in the warehouse, more scared than he'd been up on the bridge, more scared than when he'd faced down any of the half-dozen supernatural creatures he'd helped his father take out. He was alone. Forgotten. And that terrified him more than anything.

After Darling tossed the tissue in the nearby trashcan he took Taz's hand and squeezed it gently. "It's okay, kid. I'm not leaving you."

Taz's eyes, though filled with fright, gave him the most grateful, heart-wrenching look he'd ever seen in his ten years as an officer. Taz gripped his hand back so tightly it was almost painful. Darling wished he could do more than just hold the teen's hand. He reached up with his free hand and brushed aside some hair that was threatening to fall over the young man's eyes. "So where are you from? Someplace in Kentucky?"

Taz shook his head. His voice was small and tight as he answered. "No. Kansas, but we've moved around a lot since I was four. Been staying at a friend's in New Haven until a few weeks ago when Dad dumped me in Louisville."

New Haven, Darling mused. He and his wife Mary went there a couple times a year. A little mom-and-pop joint, Mamma Malone's, had the best Italian food in a hundred mile radius. Usually he and Mary finished off the meal with tiramisu or some other Italian dessert. If they decided on pizza for their meal that trip, there was a nearby ice cream parlor, Aunt Sally's, which made their frozen treats from scratch. It had become his and Mary's tradition to go for ice cream after a pizza from Malone's.

"Which hospital did your dad leave you at?" Darling asked. Maybe the kid was shook up enough he'd say.

Taz's look of "get real" almost made him chuckle. It had been worth a shot. It wouldn't be real hard to find out though. There were only a few psychiatric hospitals in town and surely only one was missing a teenager that fit Taz's description.

"So how long have you been in New Haven? It's a nice little town," Darling said, hopeful another tack might extract more information.

Trying to remember, Dean shrugged, then realized Darling could use that information to track down where he'd gotten the reconstructive surgery on his hand and figure out who he was. Not that it would be hard to ask around New Haven and find out who he was. New Haven wasn't that big. "Dunno. Not that long."

"You need to work on that lying," Darling said. "Need to keep it out of your eyes."

"I'm usually better at it," Dean said. Man, he couldn't even lie anymore and have someone believe him. He looked down at the handcuff than ran from the bedrail to his arm underneath the blanket. "That's kind of redundant, don't you think?"

Rolling his eyes, Darling said, "Yeah, I'll be sure to mention that to Greg while his bruise is healing. How the hell did you get your arm free?"

Dean gave a half-hearted smile. "Take off the cuffs and I'll be happy to show you."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. That's why those cuffs are staying on," Darling said.

"I wouldn't punch you," Dean said. "I just-I just—"

"It's okay, Taz," Darling said gently. "You were afraid he was going to give you something in the IV. You weren't really sure where you were, were you?"

Paling, Dean swallowed hard, and shook his head. "It wasn't so bad on the farm. Sammy was there. When I'd get…lost, he'd bring me back out. Kind of like you."

"You've gotten lost a lot tonight. You really had a rough go of it. How long have you been on the streets?"

Dean tried to remember. "It was May first. I was with my dad, buying Sammy a birthday present, a soccer ball. He was turning thirteen. In the store, I smelled _him_. I-I panicked. The next thing I really remember is Dad helping me into the Impala. I thought we were going back to Pastor—to the farm. Instead, he started driving out of town. I didn't ask where. An hour later, he pulled up to the hospital, shut off the car, and came around and got me out. I didn't want to go in, but he made me. They put me in a room. They locked me in there. Dad came in maybe an hour later. He said he was leaving me there, that the people there could help me. He told me he'd see me soon. They came in a little later. I think they said something about dinner, but that's when…" Dean trailed off.

"When you smelled him again?" Darling asked softly.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, then I got …lost… again. I know I fought with them. I remember the needle in my arm and I fought harder, but the drugs, they were already in me. I couldn't really move and they put me on the bed and-and-and fastened the restraints." Dean stumbled over his words. "They put an IV in me. Told me it would help me sleep, help me stay calm. I begged them not to. I begged them to take it out." He looked at the IV in his arm now. "They wouldn't. So I fought the drugs after they'd gone. I fought and fought them until I could move a little, until I could think a little better. I got my left hand free. No one was watching me. I was their tame little bitch. Why bother? Then Sammy came and he got me out of there. I made him take me home. I didn't want to go to the hospital." Dean paused, blinking, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Sammy got you out of the psychiatric hospital?" Darling asked, pleased that the story was pouring out of Taz. He knew Taz was talking because he was afraid, and if he shut up, he'd hear the noises around him and wouldn't be able to forget he was.

"…no," Dean said slowly and took a few deep breaths as the jumbled memories assaulted him. "No, Sammy coming, that was before, at the warehouse. Not at the hospital where Dad left me. There, I got out of the restraints myself, got out of the room, and ran." He stopped, trying to remember. "I think it was May 2nd by then. I should have called Sammy and wished him a happy birthday and said goodbye. I'm not a very good big brother, am I? I used to be Captain One Helluva Big Brother. But Sammy doesn't need me anymore. He can take of himself. No one needs me anymore. That's why Dad left me. That's why everyone forgot me. That's why--"

"Hey, hey," Darling interrupted, soothing him. "Look at me, Taz,"

Dean slowly lifted his gaze from the blue blanket to the offer's hazel eyes. Hazel. Kind of like Sammy's.

"I'm not going to forget you," Darling said. "I promise. I might have to let some doctors look after you, but I won't ever forget you. I'll visit you, where ever you end up. I promise, Taz. You won't ever be forgotten. No matter what. Okay?"

Dean blinked back more tears. "Why?" he asked softly. "I'm useless."

"No, you're not. You're just a little lost."

"I'm useless," Dean insisted.

Darling gave him a kind smile. "You know, I keep a lot of crap in my garage. Drives my wife up the wall. She tells me the stuff is junk. Useless. Ought to be thrown away. But you know, sooner or later I seem to turn that useless junk into something useful. I just have to find the right pieces to put it together with so it's useful again." He gave Dean a wink. "And I always point out to my wife, maybe a little too smugly sometimes, that it wasn't useless. It just needed a new lease on life." Squeezing his hand, Darling told him. "So stop thinking you're useless, kiddo. You're not. We just have to find the right pieces to put you back together."

"I-I used to find stuff people threw away and make them into other stuff," Dean said.

"See? Not useless."

Dean thought about this for a long few moments and gave a slight nod. He wasn't sure he really believed everything Darling was telling him, but it was nice to hear, all the same. He refocused on Darling. "What is today?"

"The fourteenth. Still May."

"I hope Sammy had a good birthday," Dean said quietly. "Least he didn't have to watch over his crazy brother. I hope Dad went back and got Sammy the soccer ball. He's really wanted one, especially after his team won the division championship. I even helped a guy rebuild his engine to get money for Sammy's birthday. The thief only paid me thirty bucks for the nine freaking hours I was there, but I figured it would be the only way I'd have enough money to get Sammy his soccer ball. I'd spent all my money to keep my car running really good. I couldn't risk her not starting, not with the Dementors out to kick my ass."

"The Dementors did this to you?" Darling ventured. It was a logical conclusion.

Dean gave a slow nod. "Yeah. I wasn't crazy before them. I was strong. Now I'm just pathetic."

"No, you're not," Darling said emphatically. He wondered if pathetic was worse than useless in Taz's mind. "You're scared and confused. That's all." Darling hoped it might reassure Taz but doubted that it would. If his family couldn't reach him, what chance did Darling have? Still, who knew? Strangers were sometimes easier to talk to. "So Sammy's just become a teenager, huh?" Darling said, figuring it'd be better for Taz to talk about his brother rather than his tormentors. "That's always a rite of passage of sorts, isn't it? What sort of cake do you suppose he had?"

"Pastor Jim probably—" Dean winced. Dammit. He hadn't meant to give the cop Jim's name. It wouldn't be that hard to find Pastor Jim in the small town of New Haven.

"Probably what?" Darling said, pretending the name meant nothing. Taz had already said the Pastor's name before, but apparently didn't remember. Taz's memory appeared spotty at best because of the way he wavered between the present and the past. If Darling was right that the kid was Matt Winchester, then the Pastor's name didn't matter. If he was wrong, then it might.

"Uh, probably made him chocolate cake. But he's really an ice cream junkie. Maybe Jim made him one of those half-cake, half-ice cream birthday cakes. He made one for Christmas once. It didn't look all that hard to do and Sammy liked it. I guess at five, you like anything sweet though, huh?

Darling chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose you do. So what do you think your dad got Sammy for his birthday besides the soccer ball?" Darling asked. His goal was to keep the kid calm, and maybe even try to beat back some of the monsters the kid was facing just being in the hospital. If that meant he did the alphabet song sing-along, then that's what he'd do.

Taz suddenly let go of Darling's hand and turned his head so he was staring at the wall. Darling frowned, startled by Taz's abrupt shift in manner. He looked around and saw Greg returning. _That explains that, _Darling thought.

"Well, Taz," Greg said cheerfully, "you get a private room and it's lucky number seven to boot."

"Nine," Dean murmured, still facing the wall.

Greg glanced at Darling who shrugged, equally baffled.

"Nine's my lucky number," Dean said but still didn't look at either of the men.

Greg stepped back to the nurse's station and returned as quickly as he left. He grinned at Darling then turned his attention to the teen. "You're really in luck, Taz. Linda said you could have room nine instead. How about that?"

When Taz didn't respond, Greg sighed softly to himself. Well, he'd tried. He unlocked the wheels to the cot and he and Darling started rolling the cot down the hall. Greg saw Priscilla and he pointed to their replacement cot.

"Got it," she said, then called after him. "I'm loading us up on ice packs, too," she said with a grin.

Greg gave her a dirty look just before he turned the corner into room nine, growling to himself as he heard her laughter. "Smart ass," he muttered. He turned his attention back to his patient. "Okay Taz," Greg said as he situated the cot and locked the wheels, "this is where we part ways. You take care of yourself. And avoid bridges and sharp objects, huh?" He looked over at Darling questioningly.

"He's in police custody until he's admitted. Besides, when the doctor comes, Taz may need me." He laid a reassuring hand on the teen's arm and felt the boy flinch. "I told him I'd stay with him."

"I'm sure Taz appreciates it. Or at least wants those M&Ms and coffee you promised him." Greg smirked at Darling, and then winced at the twinge in his bruised cheek.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

Greg looked down at Taz. "What?"

Dean turned his head and briefly met Greg's gaze before he let his eyes shift to the blanket. "I'm sorry I punched you."

Eyebrows lifting in surprise Greg gave Taz a smile. "Hazards of the job, Taz. Apology accepted. But try not to hit any of the doctors or nurses, huh? They're good people and only want to help you." He resisted the urge to place his hand on the teen's shoulder. He was glad Darling had managed to forge a bond with the lost teen. If Taz let anyone get close, anyone at all, Greg knew it boded well for Taz to recover from whatever monsters the kid was fighting. _A kid his age just shouldn't have those sorts of demons,_ he thought sadly.

Dean cut his gaze to Darling. "Can I have my coffee now?" he asked hopefully.

"The doctor has to check you over before I let you have anything," Darling said, giving Greg a wave goodbye. He saw Greg pause at the door, his gaze lingering on Taz before shifting to Darling. Greg gave the officer a brief smile, but sadness lingered in his eyes before he turned away. Darling knew exactly how Greg felt.

Dean grumbled. "I'm not on any drugs and I'm not hurt except for some scrapes and bruises. I just want some freaking coffee."

Darling shrugged. "Sorry kid, them's the rules. And you're going to have to cooperate with the doctor and let him check you over if you want what I promised you. Deal?"

Dean scowled but finally nodded. "You're as bad as Vader and the Empire. You keep adding crap to the deal. Fine. Whatever. But I'm going to be really pissed if you renege on me. I want my damned coffee and M&Ms. I suppose they're going to want a pee test too."

"Probably," Darling agreed. The kid seemed to have relaxed considerably now that they were out of the hallway and in a room.

Dean sighed. "And I'm stuck in these restraints."

"Yep."

"Swell," Dean muttered.

"You know, you could make this go a little easier if you'd tell me your name and let me call someone," Darling said mildly. "I promise, as soon as the doctor gives me the okay, you'll get your coffee and M&Ms."

"Peanut M&Ms," Dean corrected him.

Darling laughed. "Yeah, well let's hope the snack machine has them, okay? But I think it usually does."

Dean was silent for several seconds, then spoke. "Winchester. D-" Dean swallowed hard. He couldn't even say it. God, he couldn't even say his own fucking name. No matter what Darling said, he was fucking pathetic. He felt the tight leather restraints around his wrists and felt like he wanted to cry or puke. Both feelings only proved how pathetic he was. Miserably, he finally gave into the truth. He just couldn't say it. "Matt. Matt Winchester," he said, resorting to what his family had started calling him. It still felt weird going by his middle name. "I really kinda like Taz, though. Can you call me that instead?"

"I can do that. Now who can I call, Taz? Pastor Jim?"

Dean considered then decided he didn't want to put Jim in the middle. Wasn't like Jim could do anything anyhow. Dean had been officially admitted to that damned hospital. Jim couldn't take him back to the farm. "My dad, I guess. John. 866-555-1465. I doubt he'll really care, though. He'll probably just tell you to send me back to Creekside." Dean exhaled and added sadly, "I don't want to see him anyhow."

Darling pulled out a pen and scribbled the number and name on his pad. "I hardly think your father is going to blow you off, Taz. He's got flyers on you at every police station."

Surprised, Dean looked up. "He does?" he asked.

Darling smiled at him. "Yeah. He does. I pretty much figured you were the teen on the flyer. You be okay alone for a few minutes while I call him?"

"So long as the doctor doesn't come while you're gone," Dean said, still trying to wrap his brain around the fact his dad was looking for him. If he was, why'd he abandon Dean?

"I'll be practically just outside the door calling your dad. You just give a shout if you need anything. I'll be listening."

"Thanks," Dean said quietly. "For everything. For staying with me. And I guess, for stopping me."

Darling patted his arm. "You're welcome, Taz."


	11. Chapter 11

_Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**_

_Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU._

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter. _

**Rating: M. Warning.** Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! I'm really pretty overwhelmed by the response to this story. Thanks, too, to my beta for her excellent suggestions!

See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 11**

_live alone...die alone._

_Keep running.  
__I'm supposed to be the sun in your sky,  
__or the one that you would die for cry for give it all  
__and lay it on the line for...but I'm not.  
__I don't know you - you don't know me.  
__I don't know my own dad and he don't know me.  
__You turned your back and walked away.  
__Walked away._

_--A Father's Marathon, E-town Concrete_

**Now:  
**_May 15__th__, Louisville, KY_

John reached for the ringing cell phone, his sleep-laden mind registering that the clock read 2:56 AM. He felt his heart jump as he prayed it was good news. Maybe someone had finally found Dean and his son was okay. If he wasn't…he felt his stomach clench at the possibility. It was John's fault. All of it. He couldn't save his wife. Now he might have lost Dean. And Sam, his sweet innocent Sammy—he wasn't sure he'd be able to save him either, especially if Dean was . . . . John shook off his fears as he looked at the caller I.D. It wasn't a number he recognized.

"Winchester," John said softly, his voice raspy. He didn't want to wake his youngest son in the next bed. Whatever the news, if it was about Dean, he knew he'd need time to compose himself before waking Sam.

"John Winchester?" the voice on the other end of the phone said. John could hear sounds in the background, and after a moment of sorting them out, decided the call was being made from a hospital. _Don't be the morgue. God, please don't let it be the morgue._ But how would they have gotten his number if Dean hadn't told them? _The flyers_, John thought, feeling his jaw tighten. _My number is on the flyers and on the missing person's report I filed._

"Yes," John said. "Is this about Dean--Matt?" he asked anxiously as he sat up. He threw back the green covers of the hotel's soft bed and swung his long legs down to the carpeted floor.

"Yes. My name is Officer Darling."

When the man paused, John felt his breath catch. _Oh, God, please, no…_

"We found your son this evening trying to jump from the State Route 31 bridge," Darling finished.

John felt the breath rush out of him. The man said "trying." John felt his tears start all the same. His little boy had tried to kill himself. Again. How had he failed Dean so horribly? He had let those terrible things happen; he hadn't been there for either of his sons when they so desperately needed him. He had been on a hunt, trying to make the money he needed to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. But what good was any of that if his son died? What good was it if Dean never came back to them, lost in the torment of his own memories? Or worse, ending those torments by taking his own life?

He remembered the bright green eyes and childish laughter as John threw the baseball to the four-year-old. Those bright eyes had dulled when, after his mother's death, Dean disappeared into himself and almost hadn't come back to John. He remembered the way six-year-old Dean had awkwardly held the .45 pistol and tried to hit the bottle sitting on the fence rail. The resulting recoil from the gun gave Dean a black eye. But his son hadn't cried. Instead, he pressed his lips together, gripped the big gun more tightly, braced himself for the recoil, and fired the second bullet, hitting the outside edge of the target and shattering the bottle. His boy had looked up at John proudly even though his eye had already begun to swell. John remembered the grinning nine-year-old behind the wheel of the Impala, barely able to reach the pedals as they drove slowly down the old country road. The twelve-year-old who stood on the pitcher's mound, who threw the curve-ball as John had taught him, and the loud whoop that erupted from Dean when the batter struck out and his team won the game. The green eyes evaluating John as John dragged in at some god-awful hour, bleeding from a slew of wounds. Dean silently, carefully, cleaning the wounds and putting in the stitches, John's blood smeared on Dean's shirt and hands. A boy shouldn't have to have his father's blood on his hands. The seventeen-year-old leaning against the cracked plaster wall of that hell-hole of a motel proclaiming how much the school sucked. The school that stole his son from him.

"Did you—is he okay?" John asked, his voice almost a whisper, afraid of the answer. _He said trying. Trying. Tell me you saved him._

"We stopped him. Barely," the officer said grimly. "But I don't know that I can say he's okay. He's deeply troubled, as I'm sure you know. We're at Memorial Hospital for the moment, but I imagine they're going to want to move him to a psychiatric hospital as soon as they can."

"Memorial—that's on Oak Street isn't it?" John said, getting out of bed and sliding into his jeans. He held the cell phone awkwardly between his shoulder and ear so he had both hands free to fasten the button of his pants. He'd visited all the local hospitals every few days, both fearing and hoping his son might have ended up at one.

"It's actually on Silver Stream Lane, which is just off Oak," Darling confirmed.

John glanced at the clock again. "I can be there in about twenty minutes."

Almost apologetically, Darling said, "We're not going to be able to release him to your custody. Matt's going to have to go for a full psychiatric evaluation." Darling paused, and then said, "Matt told me he doesn't want to see you, Mr. Winchester."

John sat down on the edge of the bed, his breath catching. His boy was alive and that was the most important thing. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he knew he shouldn't be surprised Dean didn't want to see him, but it still hurt. He'd been trying to help Dean. At least, he thought he had. Maybe Sam's accusations had been all too true.

He inhaled slowly. "My son was badly beaten by a gang at his school up near Chicago." He swallowed hard again, trying to get his emotions reigned in. He couldn't bring himself to tell the officer of Dean's rape. "He's about healed up physically, but not--" how could he say it? His son was still lost in his darkness and despair. "He's never recovered from it…mentally." John ran his fingers through his hair and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. "I admitted him to Creekside Psychiatric Hospital about two weeks ago when I saw he just wasn't getting any better and we couldn't do anything more for him. Soon after I left, he had one of his…episodes at the hospital, and they had to restrain and sedate him. The doctor had left specific orders that he wasn't to be restrained or sedated because the gang did that to him in Chicago, but the staff didn't get the message I guess. Matt escaped sometime that night," John said, reminding himself bitterly that Dean had used the skills John had taught him to make that escape. "I've been hunting for him since then. You've probably got flyers on him at your precinct and a missing person's report."

"He was sexually abused by the gang?" Darling ventured. He hoped it was the gang and not Taz's family.

"Yes, how did you—" John said, startled by the officer's perceptiveness. "He was," John's voice hitched, hating that he had to tell a stranger what had happened, "raped. Repeatedly."

"So _why_ doesn't he want to see you, Mr. Winchester?" Darling asked, a slight challenge coming into his voice.

John resented the officer's implication, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, forcing his temper to stay in check. He wouldn't fight with the man who'd apparently helped save his son's life.

"He doesn't want to see me because I put him in the hospital." There, he'd said it. He'd known it, but hadn't wanted to acknowledge that he'd not only failed his son, but by taking him to the hospital without warning, by practically dumping him there, he'd betrayed what trust he'd been able to win back from Dean. And from Sam, for that matter.

Darling could hear the grief in John's voice and wanted to believe it was genuine. "He thinks he was abandoned."

John choked back his emotions but his voice was still thick with them. "I'd never abandon him. We just couldn't help him anymore. He has occasional violent episodes and he had one when we were in a store."

_Sammy's soccer ball,_ Darling thought and suddenly wondered if the father had gone back for the present. Something in him doubted it. If the man was as distraught as he sounded, he'd probably forgotten all about it.

John continued. "I took him directly to Creekside Psychiatric Hospital from there. I just--" John stopped the words not wanting to come. How could he tell a complete stranger his failings? He forced himself to continue, all the same. "—I just didn't know what else to do. I couldn't…I wasn't able to help my son." He heard the grief and guilt in his voice with that admission. If only he'd have found a way to slay Dean's monsters, to reach a hand into his darkness and bring his boy back into the light. He wasn't accustomed to feeling helpless and certainly wasn't accustomed to failing, but it seemed when it came to his boys, that was all he'd done. Failed. Again and again. "He escaped later that night."

_Helluva a birthday present for Sammy,_ Darling thought privately, then told John, "Why don't you get his doctor at Creekside to call Memorial in the morning and let Memorial know when they can send a wagon for Matt. If he's already officially admitted to Creekside, we can avoid a lot of red tape."

"I will. I know you said he doesn't want to see me," John said and paused. He just needed to be certain Dean was okay, or at least as okay as he was since the warehouse, "but I need to see him."

"I understand," Darling said, wanting to meet Taz's father himself. Although he was fairly confident the man wasn't abusive, he needed to make certain, wanted to make sure he shouldn't be arresting the man for abuse instead taking him to see his son. "We're in the emergency room. Unless they get busy, they'll probably just keep him here under a suicide watch until they can get him transferred. The doctor hasn't made it in yet to check on him. I'm in with him for the time being since he's still in police custody until his final destination is resolved. Your son is a frightened young man and has sort of latched on to me. I'll try to convince him to talk with you."

Surprised, John asked, "Latched on to you?" It wasn't like Dean to turn to a stranger for help, and certainly not a police officer. But Dean hadn't been himself for weeks.

"Yes. I tried to talk him down. I didn't succeed in that, but I did catch hold of him as he stepped off the bridge." Darling sighed. "And then tackled him when he twisted free of us and tried a second time to reach the edge of the bridge to jump. He did get a little banged up from both events, some scrapes, bruises, and a few minor cuts. When I grabbed him as he tried to jump, he slammed pretty hard into the concrete wall and his ribs took quite a hit," Darling said regretfully. The boy was hurt enough. He wished he could have saved Taz without causing the young man any more injuries. "He seems to be breathing without trouble, so I'd guess he's fine, but I'm no doctor."

John closed his eyes a moment, his despair reaching a peak within him, followed by helpless frustration. His boy had tried not once that night, but _twice_ to kill himself. He wanted to pound his fist into the plaster wall, wanted to find some monstrous evil that he could put bullet after bullet into. Even a bar room brawl that would allow him to strike recklessly at those around him would be welcome.

He softly whispered, "Thank you for saving him, Officer. If I lost him," he ignored the accusations his thoughts spat at him. He wouldn't, he couldn't, give up on his son. "I don't know what I'd do."

"Ask for me, Officer Darling, at the desk. Don't break any speed records. We'll both still be here."

"I'll be there as quickly as I can," John assured him.

John ended the call and turned on the light. He saw Sam in the next bed, silent but watching him with hopeful hazel eyes.

John clipped the phone to his jeans and quickly pulled on a t-shirt and flannel shirt over top of it, his boots, then filled his pants pockets with his wallet, keys and change. Once he'd gotten some modicum of control over his emotions and wiped away his tears, he turned back to his youngest. "Well, c'mon kiddo," he dredged up a halfhearted smile. "The police found Dean. We're going to go see him."

Sam threw back the covers and was dressed in just a handful of seconds. "Are the police holding him? Or is he at a hospital? Is he okay? Are we bringing him home?" The words rushed out of Sam as he felt elation electrify him. They found his big brother!

"Yes, Dean's at a hospital. He—" John tried to keep his voice steady as he leaned over so he was eye-to-eye with his son. "Dean tried to step off a bridge. The police saved him." John saw the same despair he felt wash over Sam's so young face. "No, Sam, we can't bring him home. He's going to need to go to a hospital that can help him."

The tears welled up in Sam's eyes. "He needs to be back at the farm. He's not as afraid there!"

John put his hands on either of Sam's shoulders and felt his youngest flinch just a little at his touch. "Sammy…Sam, we can't help him. You know we've tried. You've tried, I've tried, Jim's tried. Even Caleb and Mac haven't had any luck in reaching him. In the hospital, maybe Mac can get Dean to open up to him, and there, Dean won't be able to try to…to try to…." John's throat closed suddenly and his voice wouldn't come.

"Kill himself?' Sam's voice was small as he finished his father's sentence.

John nodded, fighting back his tears all over again. He tried to speak, but had to stop and compose himself yet again. His voice was shaky as he said, "He needs more than what we can do for him. No matter how much we love him, our love just can't fix what's wrong with him."

"But he needs me!" Sam protested, unashamed of the tears that now ran down his cheeks. If only their father would give Sam more time, he'd find a way to bring Dean back to them. He'd find a way to save his big brother. He had to.

"He needs both of us," John said. "And we have to convince him that we're still standing beside him, that we still love him and would never just leave him there. But he's got to go to a psychiatric hospital."

"Something scared him or he wouldn't have run," Sam said firmly. "Just like at the store when he panicked. Something scared him. Can't I go in there with him? I could help him. I know I could!" Sam begged.

John smiled patiently at his youngest son, remembering how all too recently Sam had experienced his own flashback to the warehouse. He wondered if Sam _shouldn't_ be in there with Dean, and helped to face his own demons. Everyone told him Sam needed help, too. He wanted to believe Sam was okay. That at least one of his boys was okay. He'd deal with Sam's problems once Dean was safe though. Sam was…managing, for the time being. "You've done a really good job of helping him so far, but I don't think we can help him anymore than we have. Can you maybe help me convince him he needs to go back to a hospital? And we'll visit him every day the first few weeks until he get comfortable there." His voice turned harder and more determined. "We won't let him think he's been abandoned. Never."

Sam's face almost slid into a pout, but anger swept that away. "We should visit him everyday he's there," Sam said with determination. He didn't care if he was giving the great John Winchester orders. His father was anything but infallible; he'd seen that first hand now. Even if John wouldn't go every day, he would. Every day he'd stay with Dean as long as they'd let him and maybe if he asked Mac, Mac would let him stay at Dean's side. He hated to think of Dean tossing and turning because of his nightmares without Sam there to soothe them away. When Dean, after he'd run away, hadn't even tried to contact Sam, Sam knew just how confused his brother was. Most times when Dean awoke from a nightmare, Sam's name was on his lips and Dean had to know almost immediately that Sam was okay. He wondered if, in the two weeks Dean had been gone, Dean thought Sam was dead and that's why he didn't try to call.

Dean never said much about his nightmares no matter how much Sam prodded him. His words were curt and he summarized the nightmares with a few sentences. "They told me they killed you. They told me they were going to kill Dad." That was generally all he ever said, if he said anything at all, but his eyes told Sam the nightmares were so much more. With certainty, Sam knew Dean dreamed of being tortured, of being raped, of being helpless. Sam understood. His own nightmares were a mixture of his abuse and of watching Dean's torture again and again. When his dreams woke him, he forced himself to stay quiet so he didn't wake Dean. He'd woken once, calling out for Dean. Hearing his name had snapped Dean awake and Dean had panicked, scrambling out of bed and into the corner of the room, whimpering and begging them not to hurt him anymore. Sam had cried that night as he soothed his frightened brother and convinced him to come back to bed. Sam vowed he'd never cry out again from a nightmare. He might wake up gasping, but he wouldn't voice his fear. He wouldn't ever do that to his brother again.

John sighed. Sam was too young to grasp the depth of Dean's problems. It had been two and a half months since the warehouse and Dean still said little, ate little, and jumped at any creak of a door, any jangle of metal, or any loud noise. He had nightmares throughout the night. He wouldn't watch TV, though sometimes he listened to his walkman. He only seemed to have episodes of violence when he was out in town around strangers. Then he would lash out wildly at anyone within reach. It took John or Sam to get him to calm down, and then he'd collapse and retreat further into himself for a handful of days with his nightmares ramping up during that time. He wouldn't talk to John or Jim about the events in the warehouse or the nightmares that plagued him, and if he talked to Sam about them, Sam wasn't sharing.

"Sam, Dean may need to be in there a long time." He paused. "We're going to take him to New York and put him in a hospital Mac recommended, one that's experienced with helping people through the sort of trauma Dean went through. Mac's invited us to stay with him. I'm not sure how close the hospital is but we'll go see him as often as we can and as often as they'll let us. Let's just see how he does those first few weeks and we'll decide what we need to do. Now let's get going, okay, Slick? Dean's waiting on us."

Though he wanted to continue arguing with his father, Sam merely nodded. He wanted to see his big brother so badly he was willing to put off the fight for now. It seemed like all he'd done since the warehouse was fight with his father. They especially hadn't talked much for the past week, and they still hadn't smoothed over the big fight they'd had when his father had taken Dean away to the hospital without even letting Sam say goodbye. It had been such a _swell_ birthday. The fight that first night at the hospital after Dean had been tortured and nearly died—well, they had reached a degree of peace over it, but Sam still harbored anger at his father for not being there, for not listening to Dean when he told John that they were in danger.

Slipping his duffel bag over his shoulder, Sam followed John out the door into the cool night. He hugged to himself the knowledge that Dean had been found and was safe. His fears melted like ice and a warm spot was left. He was going to see Dean.

John stopped at the room beside his own and rapped on the white door. He heard Caleb's muffled, "What the fuck? It's 3 AM for God's sake. No, I got it, Dad."

John heard the deadbolt turn and Caleb cracked open the door, his gold-flecked eyes peering out from behind the safety bar. John knew Caleb had a gun in his left hand; at least he damned well better.

"John?" Caleb asked. A cascade of emotions washed over his face. "Dean?" he asked, unsure if he should be filled with hope or dread. He never could get a good read on John.

"He's at Memorial Hospital on Oak," John said gruffly. "Like your vision told us, he tried to jump off a bridge, but the cops stopped him. He's okay."

Caleb shut his eyes a moment, relief filling him. They'd been haunting the bridges all over town, trying to keep his vision of Dean's suicide from materializing. "Dad," Caleb called back over his shoulder.

"I heard, Caleb," Mac said. "Tell John we'll be along momentarily."

Caleb turned back to John who gave a nod.

Sam, meanwhile, knocked on Joshua's door. He tried to wait patiently, but it seemed like Joshua was taking forever, and he started to knock again when the door opened. Joshua was in jeans and a t-shirt, his boots already on. "News, I take it? And since you're not bawling, I assume that means it's good news?"

Sam huffed and glared at Joshua. "Caleb's right. You are a shit."

Joshua chuckled. "But a shit who's been here helping," he pointed out.

Pressing his lips together, he gave a sharp nod of his head. He kept his head bowed as he mumbled. "Yeah…thanks."

Joshua cocked an eyebrow at the boy. "Be still my heart. A thanks from a Winchester. I'll get my bag."

"If you spend time primping, we'll leave your ass behind," Sam called after him as Joshua shut the door. He strode back the handful of steps to his father.

Passing his duffel off to Sam, John then handed him the keys to the Impala. "Bring the car around front. Be sure to let it warm up. I want to grab some coffee."

Sam stared in shock at the keys in his hand. "O-okay," he said. He shook his head in amazement as he walked to the Impala parked halfway across the lot. John was going to let Sam drive his precious Impala? Sam had known how to drive since he was ten, and had driven on the rare occasions when both John and Dean were too hurt to drive the car themselves, but this was different. At least it felt different. It felt like trust.

The door to Caleb and Mac's room opened and Caleb stepped out, still putting on his leather coat. "Guess I better wake sleeping beauty and get his ass moving," Caleb grumbled.

"Sam already did," John said as Joshua's door opened. John started heading for the lobby.

"Dad's going to bring the Jeep and meet us out front," Caleb told Joshua. "I'm going to get some coffee. Dad says you're welcome to ride along. If you don't want to come, you don't have to."

"Don't sound too hopeful I might stay behind." Annoyance lit Joshua's face. "After having spent the better part of the past two weeks on a hunt for a wayward Winchester, I deserve to see this through and the happy reunion that follows. I'll wait for Mackland. Two creams and two sugars, please."

Caleb snorted. "Who said I was getting any for you?"

"Are you going to stand here and argue or are we going to go see the nutcase?" Joshua asked.

Caleb stepped toward Joshua, his fist clenched. "He's not crazy," Caleb growled. He was all but ready to punch Joshua when Mac opened the door.

Mac's gaze shifted between the two men. "Caleb," he ordered, "go get our coffee."

Caleb gave Joshua a glare that would melt steel then turned and broke into a light jog to catch up with John who was halfway to the lobby. "One of these days I'm going to take great pleasure in laying that jerk out. Such a freaking smug-ass priss," he muttered as he caught up with his mentor and fell in step beside him.

John didn't say anything as he opened the door that led to the check-in desk and made a beeline for the coffee. He poured two cups of coffee, filling one half full with milk and a couple sugars. He grabbed some donuts and slid them into the provided bags while Caleb poured three cups, reluctantly adding the cream and sugar as Joshua had asked. John handed him a bag with three donuts.

"Thanks, Johnny," Caleb said and met John's reserved gaze. "I'm sure he's okay."

"He hasn't been okay since the warehouse," John said brusquely.

If his hands hadn't been full, he'd have laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll get him back. Somehow."

John couldn't look at Caleb. He knew it was his fault this had happened to Dean and while neither Mackland nor Caleb had said anything resembling accusations, he still felt they harbored anger at John for ignoring the pleas of his sons, and he couldn't blame them. As a parent, he sucked, the terrible events of the past few months making that crystal clear. He loved his sons more than anything, yet he'd still let the Dementors take Dean and break his boy's very soul into pieces.

Hearing the rumble of the Impala, John walked out the door, Caleb's words of assurance ringing falsely in his ears. Caleb's Jeep pulled up behind the Impala, Joshua's big frame folded in the back seat and Mac at the wheel.

Sam crawled over to the shotgun position so John could sit in the driver's seat. John handed the milk and coffee mix to Sam and set the bag of donuts on the seat.

Sam took the cup but looked at him, surprised. "You're going to let me have coffee?" he asked. John always told Dean that Sam was too young for coffee.

"I know Dean let's you have it when I'm not around," John said as he shifted the car into gear.

"You do?" Sam said. Normally he'd be afraid of the lecture he'd get, and the major lecture John would give Dean. At least Dean was spared that, but Sam wished feverously that wasn't the case, because that would mean his brother was okay.

"Of course, Sam." John pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway. "Besides, you _are_ thirteen now." He glanced over at his youngest and gave him a smirk.

Sam's breath caught and he looked away quickly, blinking back his tears. That smirk looked just like the smirk Dean had given Sam those long weeks ago, right before the gang smashed the hell out of Dean's car and nearly Sam's head.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam said softly as he dropped his gaze to stare at the cup of coffee he held.

John was stung by Sam's reaction to his weak attempt at humor. _I guess I suck at that, too,_ John thought despondently. Swallowing back his shame, he asked, "For what?"

"I've said a lot of terrible things to you lately."

That wasn't the admission John expected and he nearly choked on his coffee. He anticipated maybe an apology for Sam's angry words at the motel, even as well-deserved as they might be. The broader apology Sam offered him now startled him. "We're both guilty of that. We're both worried about Dean. Things get said when people are upset."

"I didn't mean most of them," Sam said quietly.

John gave a little nod, noting the "most" Sam threw in there and wondered which words Sam _had_ meant, though he could guess. "I know, Sam. I've been hard on you, too." John sipped his coffee. He wanted nothing more than to floor the gas to get to the hospital as fast as he could, but the officer was right. He didn't need a ticket or to be in an accident, so he forced himself to keep the Impala near the speed limit.

"Are you mad at me?" Sam asked miserably and stared at his father with hope. He wanted to hear John tell him he understood, that he wasn't mad at Sam for the fight at the hospital that night John first got in. That he wasn't mad at Sam for the fights they had at Pastor Jim's. That he wasn't mad at Sam for not staying behind like he'd ordered him to.

John glanced over at his son and found a small smile for him. "Let's just forget these past few weeks, okay, Sammy? We both got pretty angry with each other. We need to be strong for Dean. We need to be a family for him."

"But are you mad at me?" Sam insisted.

John sighed. Sam just wouldn't let things go. He'd always been that way. Almost embarrassed, John had to admit Sam had inherited that trait from him. Mary didn't—hadn't--obsessed about things like the two of them. Dean certainly took after his mother in demeanor and his much more relaxed view of life. "No, Sam, I'm not mad at you. I wish you'd stayed at Pastor Jim's like I'd asked," John paused and glanced over at his son, "but I'm glad you're here, making this drive with me. I really wouldn't like making it by myself."

That seemed to satisfy Sam and Sam looked out the window as he sipped his coffee.

Not more than a few miles had rolled under the Impala's wheels when Sam practically shouted, "Take this exit, Dad!"

John tensed, his heart immediately hoping that Sam had seen Dean, then he reminded himself that Dean was in a hospital up the road, that Dean had been found. Slowing the car and steering it toward the exit, he tried to see what had caught his son's attention. The only thing obvious was the open gas station and the lit up Steak and Shake restaurant.

"What is it, Sam?"

"The Steak and Shake!"

John furrowed his brow. "I brought us some donuts."

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Dean's been on the street for two weeks. He's got to be hungry. A cheeseburger with extra onions and some french fries would make him happy. I know they would!" he said excitedly.

With a shake of his head he pulled off at the exit and circled around to the restaurant. He saw the Jeep follow him in and figured the passengers in the Jeep were as baffled as he'd been. He placed the order at the drive thru, adding in two more burgers, one for each of them, and a strawberry shake for Dean. Who knew how long they'd be at the hospital and neither he nor Sam had been eating a lot these past few weeks. He handed Sam the bag of food as he paid the dark-haired girl at the window. The hospital probably wouldn't let Dean have the food, but he couldn't bring himself to tell Sam that.

"There, Dad! The gas station. They'll have peanut M&Ms. That'll make him happy, too!" Sam pointed at the gas station and its mini-mart just up the block.

John all but bit his tongue as he followed his youngest's orders. He pulled in and put the car in park. After giving the passengers of the Jeep a helpless shrug, he followed Sam inside where they bought three packs of M&Ms. John looked down at his son as they left the store. "Anything else before we get back on the road?" he said as patiently as he could.

Sam gave him a small, sheepish grin. "No. This should be good."

John glanced at the Jeep and gave a nod to the passengers as he and Sam got back into the Impala. He could hear Joshua making some asinine comment and hoped Caleb didn't clobber him, no matter how much he might deserve it. Joshua had gone out of his way to help. John suspected Jim might have had a hand in that, but regardless, Joshua had stayed and put his all into looking for Dean. He even did some of his witchcraft. But like Mac and his psychometry, he didn't have any luck locating Dean. John wondered if it was because his boy was truly lost and the Dean Mac and Joshua were searching for just didn't exist anymore.

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See Letting the rain in's "Forgotten" as to John's comment about Dean disappearing into himself after his mother's death.


	12. Chapter 12

_Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**_

_Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU._

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter. _

**Rating: M. Warning.** Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews of previous chapters! Thanks to my beta for her excellent suggestions! This chapter has been a real battle to get right and my beta didn't have a chance to re-review it, so any typos, etc. are all my fault. Sorry it took me soooo long to get this chapter up!

See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 12**

_Welcome to the city  
__Welcome the gritty concrete  
__Where cons and creeps sweep sweet, pretty young girls off their feet  
__Off the Avenue, off the beaten path  
__Cops walk the beat and clash with the bad bloods_

—_Redefined, Cross Movement_

**Then:  
**_March 18__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam stood at the mouth of the alley and watched for the police, drinking sparingly from the opened bottle of water the clerk had used on his hand. He'd taken off the gun holster and stuffed it into the bag of supplies from the mini-mart, hoping the cops wouldn't notice it. His face was damp from when he'd tried to wipe the blood from his face, and that dampness only made him colder. The blood on his outer layer of clothes had frozen in the cold, stiffening the material. Even wearing three layers of shirts he was still freezing in the growing darkness.

_Where are the cops?_ Sam thought, his frustration and fear mounting. If they didn't show soon, he'd go in again and try to pick the Dementors off one by one. This time he couldn't let his emotions get in the way. No matter what they were doing to Dean, he'd have to stay hidden. If he'd been smarter the first time, he'd have backed away, called the cops, returned, and shot Juarez from the shadows. If he'd done that, maybe he could have gotten Dean out and maybe Dean wouldn't have a broken leg. But they were _raping_ his brother! Sam couldn't just stand by and watch them do that to him! …And what might they have done to Dean since Sam escaped?

His head snapped up when he saw the flashing lights of three cop cars approaching. _Thank God,_ Sam thought, relief filling him as he waved the first police car down.

Inside the police car, Officer Jelena pointed out the kid by the alley. "That's probably the brother," he checked his notes, "Sam."

"Kid looks like he's taken a beating, too," Officer Tull said as he made the turn into the alley and stopped the car.

Jelena rolled down the window, almost wincing as the cold air hitting his face. The kid had blood in big and small splotches all over his clothes and his face was bruised in multiple places. Jelena figured the rest of him probably was too. "You Sam?" he asked, his breath turning to white vapor.

"Yes, sir. I can show you—"

"You need to let us handle this, Sam. We've got your directions to your brother. We'll get Dean out."

"But—" the boy started to protest.

"You need to stay out of the way and let us do our job, son. This alley can be hard to spot. You can help your brother most by staying here and waving down the ambulance when it gets here, okay?"

"Yes, sir," the boy said reluctantly and stepped back to the sidewalk.

The kid looked like he was about to cry, but they couldn't take the time now to comfort him; they had to get to his brother. Time wasn't on their side to begin with, if Sam had been right about how long the Dementors had been working his brother over. After they'd gotten to his brother and secured the scene, they could bring Sam inside. Jelena prayed it wasn't going to be for Sam to identify his brother's body. Going up against a gang—and the Dementors, no less—meant securing the scene was probably going to be a bitch.

Tull drove the car slowly down the alley, watching for movement in the parking lot ahead of them. The headlights shone onto the disturbed snowfall and red glistened, intermixed with the white crystals. "Looks like it may have started here," Tull said.

Jelena already had his gun out and was scanning the shadows for movement. Tull parked the cruiser to help block in the green Cadillac. Stepping out of the car, Jelena cautiously approached the Cadillac, shining his flashlight inside. There was blood in the backseat and the ignition looked like it had been hot-wired.

Tull took the lead as the four officers from the other two cruisers joined them. They approached the warehouse's pedestrian door. The officers lined either side of the doorway as Tull opened the door. Its screech seemed to echo in the night. Gun held at ready, Jelena stepped inside the warehouse and scanned the immediate area.

"Clear," he said softly and his partner joined him, followed by the others. The six officers moved silently, using the directions the boy had given dispatch to navigate the warehouse. They had each turned their radios down as low as possible and still hear if dispatch called.

Tull shouted, "Police, freeze!" when two teens came out of the shadows. The gang members immediately broke into a run, each going a different direction.

"We got 'em," Olvera told Tull as she and her partner took off after the boys.

Tull turned to the others. "We're getting near where the kid should be. Spread out and watch yourselves. No heroics. These are the Dementors we're talking about and they aren't afraid to shoot."

A few minutes later, Jelena saw a naked teen tied to a chair and three gang members taunting him. "Police!" Jelena shouted as he stepped out. The three gang members bolted. "C-20, three headed your way," Jelena said into the radio. "I've located the injured teen."

Hearing the pound of footsteps behind him, Jelena spun, ready to shoot.

"Dean!" Sam cried and, ignoring the startled officer and his pointed gun, ran to his brother's side. Dean was barely conscious; syringes littered the floor around the chair and Sam saw the numerous needle marks in Dean's arms.

Jelena exhaled in relief but cursed the kid for entering the scene. Who knew how many of the gang were still inside the building. Tull and Benton came out of the shadows and joined Jelena.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam begged and pulled off Dean's blindfold.

Dean whimpered and tried to draw away.

"It's Sammy. It's Sammy. I'm here. You're going to be fine."

Sam vaguely heard one of the officers say he'd stay with the boys and the resulting footsteps as the other police officers moved out in search of the gang members.

"Sammy," Dean sobbed. "No, Sammy, no!" he wailed softly.

"I'm here, it's okay." Sam gently placed his hands on either side of his brother's swollen and bruised face and turned it toward his own. "I'm here. I'm right here. C'mon big brother, come on. I'm here."

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, the name slurred and almost unrecognizable. His left eye was lost in swollen flesh and the right eye barely a slit. "I heard you screaming. I heard you. He said—he said--"

"I'm fine," Sam said emphatically, as much to reassure himself as to reassure Dean. "The police are here. We're safe. I'm going to get you untied now."

"They've handcuffed him, Sam," Jelena said. "I'll make sure the ambulance brings in a cutter for them.

Sam continued to ignore the cop and instead looked over at the table where his and Dean's belongings were scattered. He ran over and snagged his pocketknife and lockpicks. When he turned back around, he saw Jelena kneeling in front of his brother, his fingers on Dean's carotid. Sam wanted to yell at the cop to leave his brother alone, but told himself the cop wasn't hurting him, he was trying to help him. Moving to the backside of Dean, Sam pulled out the lock picks he'd brought and it took him only a few seconds to work the inside mechanisms and unlock the cuff on Dean's shattered arm. Sam grimaced at the trickle of blood as he pried the cuff from his brother's badly swollen flesh, but the bluish haze of the mangled hand began to look less blood deprived. Sam turned to the other cuff and, after picking its lock, angrily threw the cuffs away from his brother.

"How the hell…?" Jelena said as he stood up, seeing the cuffs skitter across the floor.

Sam didn't respond as he began to work at cutting through the ropes binding Dean's arms to the chair. Every time he jostled Dean's shattered arm, Sam heard his brother groan.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered, trying to be as careful as he could and trying not to cry. Sam breathed a sigh of relief when he got Dean free. When Sam gently moved Dean's arm to his side. Dean gave a strangled gasp and a whispered, "No, please, no."

"I'm almost done, Dean," Sam told him.

Dean whimpered and pulled back from him. "No. Don't. Don't," he begged.

Sam clenched his jaw. He needed to get the arm splinted and in a sling to help minimize any more movement to it, and so he could get the arm above the heart. Spying a wooden crate nearby, Sam dashed to it and broke out two boards. As he brought them back, along with a sheet he grabbed that was lying on one of the mattresses, he heard the cop reporting on his brother's condition to the dispatcher. Quickly ripping a long strip from the sheet, he looked at the boards then looked up at the cop. When the cop finished talking on the radio, Sam spoke.

"Officer, can you help me splint his arm?"

"We need to wait for the paramedics," Jelena said. "We could make it worse."

Sam snorted. "Don't think it can be much worse. I'm splinting it, with or without your help."

Jelena stared down at the young boy and saw the determined look in his eyes. The paramedics were going to have to stabilize that arm before they moved the teen, and anything Jelena could do to help them get the teen out faster would probably be a help. Moving to Sam's side he accepted the boards Sam held out.

"One on the front and back of his arm," Sam told Jelena as Sam shook out the twists in the strip of sheet he held in his hands.

Placing the boards as the boy indicated, Jelena held them loosely there until Sam got the sheet started around them. He tightened them just a bit. "Don't tie it too tightly, Sam. That arm may swell some more."

"I know how to splint a broken bone," Sam said, barely keeping the growl out of his voice.

After he got the sheet wrapped around the boards a few times he stopped and made sure Dean's hand was still getting blood flow. Seeing that is was, he finished wrapping the boards and tied off the sheet. Tearing off a wider piece of sheet, he quickly created a sling. He handed it to the officer and then carefully and smoothly moved Dean's arm to his chest. Dean groaned. Sam motioned to the officer and Jelena wrapped the sheet under Dean's elbow and tied it around Dean's neck.

Sam was grateful to see the officer had already untied the ropes around Dean's ankles. Sam stood back up and made Dean face him again. "You're going to be okay," Sam said firmly. "Do you hear me? You're Captain One Helluva Big Brother and you're going to be fine." Sam put all the confidence he could into his voice. He felt a slight shift in his brother's balance as Dean straightened up just a little.

"Sammy?" Dean asked again, twisting his head so he could see his brother with his right eye. His vision was all blurry and doubled and his mind buzzed with confusion as he struggled to sort out what was happening. He hurt. He hurt so badly, but the drugs that had been given to him made the pain more bearable. When the drugs wore off—he almost shuddered, knowing how much it was going to hurt when they did wear off. He really just wanted to sleep. To sleep and not wake up for several days. But he had to be strong. For Sammy.

"I'm right here," Sam said, resting his hands on Dean's shoulders.

Dean managed a slight nod. He was cold. He was so cold. "Pants. Want my pants," he mumbled.

Sam looked up at the officer. "Please, you gotta help me get his pants on. He-he can't be seen, not like this."

"The ambulance will have blankets," Jelena told Sam. "We don't want to move him. It could injure him worse," he said gently. "They'll only cut the jeans right back off him, anyhow."

"I don't care!" Sam yelled, straightening. His brother wanted his pants on. He understood. He understood at the visceral level why Dean wanted his pants on. He saw Dean cringe back from him and he forced himself to lower his voice so as not to scare his brother. "They aren't going to see what those bastards did to him." Turning from his brother, he spied Dean's pants where they lay on the floor near the blood-smeared table. He went over to them and snatched them up, quickly returning to his brother's side. "You've got to help me," Sam told Dean. "I've got your pants. I'm going to get them on you, okay?"

Dean gave a bare nod. "Pants. Want." God, he hurt. God was he cold. He told himself not to shiver. Shivering would only make everything hurt worse.

_Sam's damned determined,_ Jelena thought as he moved to intercede. "Son, we don't want to move him. Let's just get some blankets on him."

Turning furious, steely eyes on the man, Sam ground out. "My brother wants his pants on. I'm going to give him that. Got it?" he snarled.

Jelena almost took a step back, the look in the younger boy's eyes frightening. A kid shouldn't have that sort of murder in his eyes. Not in a just world. In a just world, Dean wouldn't have been beaten within an inch of his life, either. Sometimes Jelena hated his job, hated seeing the things that people would do to one another, what _kids_ would do to one another. Here in front of him was a prime example of the cruelty of the human race: the obvious torture this teen had suffered at the hands of other kids. _Kids,_ for Chrissakes.

Sammy knelt in front of his brother, pants in hand. Jelena swore under his breath. The kid wasn't going to stop unless Jelena forcibly stopped him, and it looked like the kid would fight him tooth and nail. To make matters worse, the badly injured teen was swaying in the chair without the ropes to support him.

Ever so gently Sam began working the pants onto Dean's legs. Checking Dean's leg that had been hit with the pipe, Sam could see the hint of swelling in it but it didn't seem to be broken. Sam felt it in his gut that it was fractured none-the-less. Dean's pants were loose enough that he thought he could get the pants over the thigh. If it was broken and continued to swell, the pants would offer some stabilization.

"Sam, stop," Jelena said. "Your brother's about to fall out of the chair. You help him stay upright and I'll drag that mattress over here. We can lay him down on the mattress, get his pants on him, get his feet up, and cover him with blankets until the ambulance arrives, okay?"

The officer's sensible words cut through the fury that all but made Sam's hands shake. He could get Dean's pants on him without help, but it would be hard and he'd probably hurt Dean and himself worse in the process. Pausing, he looked up at Jelena and after a moment, relented. He set the pants aside and stood, placing his hands back on Dean's shoulders to steady his brother. "I'll get your pants on you in just a minute. We're going to get you laid down on a mattress. It won't be as hard to get your pants on you then."

"Dad?" Dean slurred.

"No, Dad's not here," Sam said. "It's Sammy."

"We. Y'said 'we'." Dean mumbled.

"A friend. A friend is with me. Don't worry, Dad'll be here soon," Sam said. _Yeah. Sure he will._

Dad would be here soon. Dean let out a soft sigh. His family would take care of him. His Dad would have the morphine ready for when these drugs wore off. He'd be okay. He'd be warm. He'd be safe. Dad and Sam would make everything okay.

Sam slid his fingers over Dean's carotid. His pulse was a little fast and a little weaker than it probably should be, and Sam was stunned his brother didn't have any apparent signs of shock. Dean wasn't sweating—of course, it was cold in the warehouse, even with the portable heaters. He was confused, but that was a result of the drugs, at the very least. Maybe some of the drugs given him were keeping Dean out of shock? He recalled then that Juarez had made sure Dean got water to drink. Maybe that had helped?

Evaluating Dean's injuries, Sam knew it was going to be hard to move Dean without causing him a lot of pain, but they needed to get him on the ground and get his feet raised to help reduce the effects of shock. Dean might not have obvious signs of shock, but Sammy feared at some point Dean's body was going to start to shut down.

"You need to move the syringes," Sam told Jelena when Jelena came back with the mattress.

Jelena picked up the syringes, set them aside, then got the mattress beside Dean. When Sam started to move his hands to Dean's waist Jelena laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam jerked away violently and stumbled back.

"Easy Sam," Jelena said. Sam winced and his arm went protectively to his ribs. _Good God, the kid's been beat up worse than I thought. He's got bruised or broken ribs,_ Jelena thought. "Let me lift your brother. You stabilize his neck."

"He's been moving it okay," Sam replied, his voice a pained whispered. He fought to get his small gasps back to normal breathing. At least the extra kick of adrenalin was helping him to control the pain.

"Better safe than sorry, Sam. Do you know how to stabilize someone's neck?"

"Yeah," Sam said, forcing himself to straighten. The bandages around his ribs needed tightening; his hasty wrap job from earlier had loosened after everything he'd been through. He'd deal with them after he got Dean taken care of. Moving behind Dean, Sam carefully placed his hands on either side of Dean's head and neck. "Dean, we're going to move you. We're going to get you on a mattress so we can get your pants on you and get some blankets put over you."

He felt Dean tremble underneath his touch. "Brother? It's Sammy. You still with me?"

After a moment Dean whispered. "Yeah. Mov'ng. Hurt. Do it."

Jelena carefully ran his fingers gently over Dean's ribs, making sure if he was lifting the teen, that he didn't inadvertently injure him more. He found two ribs he was fairly certain were broken and placed his arm higher on Dean's back then slid his arms under Dean's knees He readied himself and looked over at Sam.

"You ready? We're going to move you now," Sam said.

Dean mumbled a response that Sam took to mean a yes.

"Ready?" Jelena asked. After Sam's nod, Jelena said, "On three. One, two, three."

As Jelena lifted, Dean screamed in pain. Jelena ground his teeth and moved the teen onto the mattress. He looked at Sam and saw the tears streaking the boy's pale face. He gave Sam a small smile. "The medics will be able to get him onto a back board easier from here. Somebody would have had to move him, Sam."

Sam nodded and wiped at his tears.

The teen's breathing was sounding labored so Jelena grabbed the chair beside the mattress and flipped it over so the seat faced the floor. He gently slid it under the mattress to elevate the teen's head and chest, to ease his breathing. Sam retrieved two cushions from one of the rotting sofas and slid them under his brother's feet.

"Dispatch, C-41," Jelena said into his radio mike as he stood up. He waved to Sam to fetch some blankets.

"C-41, Dispatch."

"E.T.A. for the ambulance?" Jelena knew it had been a busy night for EMS and hoped the ambulance would be there soon.

"At least fifteen to twenty minutes, C-41. Ambulance is coming from Standers as mutual aid. Do we need to dispatch UCAN?"

"Negative, no place for the chopper to land," Jelena said. With the police cars in the parking lot and the tall buildings around it, the air ambulance couldn't land there. Closest place would be the Nester Street Methodist Church. By the time they landed, got the backboard to the warehouse and the kid to the chopper, the regular ambulance would be here. "Kid's bad. Tell them to step on it."

"Clear, C-41."

Jelena saw the younger brother working the pants onto the teen's legs instead of getting the blankets. Damn that kid was stubborn. With a sigh, Jelena helped him.

"Thank you," Sam whispered, tears sliding down his face. "Please go catch them. I'll stay with him." Sam rose from his brother's side and grabbed some blankets. He flicked them out and let them settle gently on top of Dean.

"Do you know which ones did this to your brother?" the officer asked as he moved a portable heater closer to the injured teen. "And who beat you?"

"All of them," Sam said, wiping at his running nose with his sleeve. He absently noticed the smear had streaks of crimson. "And Juarez boasted that he killed her." Sam pointed to Isabelle. Turning his gaze upward to the police officer, he begged, "Please! You have to catch them. You can't let them get away. Not after what they did!"

Shaking his head, Jelena said, "No, I need to stay here with you and your brother and keep an eye on Dean for the ambulance." The words were hardly out of his mouth when he heard distant gunfire followed by "officer down" on his radio. He listened to the chatter. Someone was sniping and had nailed Benton, but he couldn't tell how bad Benton was hit.

"Go!" Sam insisted.

_Where was the kid going to go?_ Jelena thought. _Yeah, but what if one of the gang members swings back around to finish the job on the teen? On both of the boys, for that matter._

Jelena shook his head. "I can't leave you. They might come back."

"We'll be fine," Sam insisted. "I'll protect him."

Giving the young boy a wan smile, he said, "It's _my_ job to protect you and your brother."

Sam stared hard at the cop. "Your job is to catch the bad guys. Your job is to protect your partner. They won't come back so long as you guys are chasing them. And if they do," Sam's eyes flicked meaningfully to the table and the gun laying on it, "I'll protect my brother."

The chatter on the radio kicked up in urgency. Jelena knew more officers were on their way to the warehouse. "Officer down" brought in everyone, but his duty was to stay by the boys.

Sam came to his side. "We'll. Be. Fine," he said. "Please. Go. I'll turn off the lights. They won't see us."

_Crap. Rock and a hard place,_ Jelena thought. He looked down at Sam. He was torn between duty to the boys and duty to his comrades. After a long hesitation he finally gave in. "All right, but let's get you two moved into the dark, over there, by that piece of machinery."

Jelena gently pulled the chair out from beneath the mattress and handed it to Sam, then dragged the mattress over into the shadows. Dean groaned at the jostling. Sam slid the chair back in place under the mattress once Jelena gave him the signal.

Turning to Sam, Jelena's voice was firm. "You stay quiet and out of sight." He handed Sam a whistle. "You get company, you give this a blow. We should be able to hear it."

"I'll get my cell phone, too. It's on the table over there. I can call 911 if they come back."

"Sam, I should stay…" Jelena began.

"No! They already have an advantage. Their turf and one of you injured. You have to nail them. You have to!"

"If—if you do pick up that gun, don't get stupid. There are a lot of friendlies in here."

"Yes, sir. I know. My dad's taken me hunting. I'll be careful."

Jelena took a deep breath. If something happened to these kids, he'd never forgive himself. He almost couldn't do it, but the sound of more gunfire gave his pulse a sudden jolt. His partner was out there. He took off at a run, talking into the radio as he went.

As soon as the officer was gone, Sam lifted his shirt and re-wrapped his ribs, tightening the bandages. When he'd jerked away from the officer, he thought his knees were going to flat give out on him. Tightening the bandages helped both ease the pain and let him breathe much easier. After giving a glance back at his brother, Sam went to the table where their stuff lay, stopping to pick up the bag the guy from the mini-mart had given him. He quickly slipped the gun holster on and placed the 9-mm in it. He put his coat on, stuffed what was left of his small arsenal, his cell phone, Dean's wallet, and the wadded up thirty dollars in his pockets. Gathering the syringes, he carefully wrapped them in one of the bandanas and placed the bundle in the bag with the water and M&Ms. The hospital would need to know what the gang had given Dean. He scooped up the rest of Dean's clothes and hurried back to his brother.

Pulling out the bottle of water, planning to offer some to his brother, Sam suddenly hesitated. There had been vomit by Dean's chair, vomit that was a watery mix of blood and white and green fluids. Offering water to Dean could set Dean up for aspirating vomit into his lungs if he threw up again, but the water was the only way Sam had to get fluids into his brother, the only way he might be able to delay the onset of shock. Sam would just have to watch Dean carefully and if it looked like Dean was going to throw up, he'd just make certain his brother was positioned so he didn't suck any of it into his lungs. "I brought you water. You want some water?"

Dean managed a nod.

Sam carefully poured a bit of water into Dean's burned mouth.

After several small swallows, Dean whispered, "When going home?"

"We're going to the hospital. You're injured. Bad," Sam said, even knowing that social services would be on them in a heartbeat. As soon as John didn't show, Sam would probably be put into foster care and who knew if he'd be able to see his brother.

"Dad?"

"He's not here yet."

"Home," Dean insisted.

"Dammit," Sam swore. "No! You need to go—"

"Home," Dean said again. "Please Sammy," he begged. "Take me home."

"No," Sam said.

"Please. Please take me home."

Sam swallowed. His voice turned pain-filled. "It'll hurt you to try to move you. It could make things worse."

Dean reached up to Sam's shirt and gripped it loosely. "I don't care. Home."

Sam stared into the distant shadows where the officer had disappeared. He'd just wanted them to catch those bastards. He wanted all of them caught. Now, what was he supposed to do? Dean needed a hospital. He had a broken arm and hand, maybe a broken leg, and probably a handful of other bones were broken. If the officer were still with them, there would be no question that he couldn't take Dean home. He had to convince his brother a hospital was the best place for him.

"They gave you drugs. You need to go to the hospital to make sure, you know, that you don't O.D."

Dean managed a small nod. "Said it wouldn't…kill me. I'll be…fine. Pain…not so bad. Get me home now…before wears off."

"No," Sam said firmly.

"Please," Dean pleaded. "Please Sammy. Please." Dean began to sob softly. "Please take me home." Dean's thoughts were muddied by the pain and drugs but he wanted to be someplace known, some place he felt safe. He wanted Sam and his father with him. He wanted "home."

Sam felt his resolve weaken. He knew Dean needed a hospital. He knew he did, but seeing his brother laying there, sobbing, begging Sam to get him home…. He closed his eyes. Every sob cut through him like a knife in his gut. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. God, he shouldn't.

"It'll be okay, Dean," Sam said as he reached to take his brother's hand, "you'll see. It will."

Dean's breath caught and he jerked away, sobbing harder. "No. No. No. Please!" he cried.

Sam felt his own tears try to start again. He knew—_knew_—Dean needed a hospital, but his brother wanted to go home—home to die? A little voice in Sam's head wondered.

NO! Hospital or not, Dean was going to be fine. He was going to be fine! Caleb would have seen it if Dean was going to die, right? He'd be here. That meant Dean was going to be fine.

Dean's continued mutterings of "Home. I wanna go home. Please. Sammy!"

"Okay," Sam relented. He just couldn't deny his brother. Not this time. He could get Dean home, get him cleaned up and see just how bad he was, and then call 911 if he had to. Needing to get other things in motion in case Dean did have to go to the hospital, he hit speed dial 2 on his cell phone. _Please, Dad, pick up. Please pick up._ The call went straight to voice mail. He'd hoped, just this once, that his father would be there for them. It wasn't fair, he knew his dad had been there for them plenty of times, but plenty of times he hadn't either. And this was one time Sammy didn't think he'd ever forgive his father for not being there.

"Dad, call as soon as you can. Dean's hurt bad. The gang got a hold of him. They had him all day. You've got to come home. Please, Dad. You've got to come home." Sam's took a deep breath. He wasn't going to blubber so his father could hear him, but it was getting harder and harder not to. He made himself turn away from the bloody heap that was his brother. "I'm going to call Pastor Jim. Please, Dad. Call me."

_Damn you, Dad! We need you! _Sam's hands shook as he ended the call and then speed-dialed Jim's number.

"Hello?" The man's voice was kind and welcoming

"Pastor Jim, it's Sammy. Sammy Winchester," Sam said. Hearing the stalwart familiar voice in the midst of all the horrors almost made Sam lose it. He wanted to bawl like a two year old and ask Pastor Jim to make everything okay again.

"Samuel, what's wrong?" Jim queried, hearing the quaver in the young boy's voice.

"Dean's really hurt, Pastor Jim. Dad's away. He's not answering his phone. Dean doesn't want to go to the hospital. Please, Pastor Jim. Please. You've got to come." Sam heard the panic in his own voice and tried hard to keep it under control. He couldn't fall apart. Not now.

"What happened?" Jim asked, his voice calm. Sam heard a door shut and the rattle of keys.

"There's been a gang after Dean. They got a hold of him and beat him up. They beat him up real bad," Sam said. _No, I'm not going to start crying!_

"I have the address your father left with me. You're at the Starliner Motel still?"

"Yes," Sam said quietly. At least he would be soon, he thought grimly.

"I'm on my way, Samuel. It'll take me a few hours to get there. Will Dean be okay that long?"

"I think so. Yeah. Yeah, he will." Dean had to be okay. He had to be.

Pastor Jim breathed a soft sigh of relief as he climbed into his truck. "You keep trying your dad. If Dean gets _any _worse, you call 911 and then call me back, you hear me?"

"Yes sir," Sam replied.

"I'll see you soon, Samuel. Have faith."

Sam ended the call and turned back to face his brother.

_He should go to the hospital, _Sam told himself again, but when he heard Dean still sobbing and begging Sam to take him home, the last of Sam's will caved. Of course, if the ambulance just happened to make it there before he could get Dean moved, well, that was more than a little okay, too.

He gathered Dean's thermal shirt, t-shirt and the two flannel shirts, socks and shoes. He quickly cut the t-shirts and thermal shirt up the side seams, along the sleeve, and then cut a notch in the neck to make it bigger. He pulled each over Deans head in turn. It wasn't ideal, but it would offer Dean some protection against the cold. The flannels he wrapped around Dean's shoulders and buttoned the top buttons. and then ripped more of the sheet into strips.

"I'm going to wrap your ribs. You need to sit up, Dean."

Dean inhaled sharply and tried to worm himself away from Sam. Sam's brow furrowed. Why did Dean keep jerking back from him?

"His name. Oh God," Sam whispered remembering how the gang said Dean's name every time before they hurt him. They'd started doing it to Sam, too. Brother. He'd stick with calling Dean "brother."

"Brother? It's Sammy. I'm going to wrap your ribs. Think you can sit up a little?"

"Sammy? You're okay?" Dean slurred.

"I'm fine. I've got bandages to wrap your ribs. I'm going to start, okay? We'll sit you up just a little bit so I can get the bandages on and get your shirts pulled down."

With Dean's cooperation, he tightly wrapped Dean's ribs with strips from the sheet, trying hard to ignore the gasps and sobs coming from his brother as he worked on him. He helped Dean into his leather coat and fastened the coat part way closed, then wrapped the thickest of the blankets around his brother, then got his socks a boots on him. Sam teeter-tottered between trying to hurry up to get Dean out of the warehouse before the ambulance arrived or the cops came back, and praying for either of the same to show up and stop him. He finished before either the police or ambulance showed. Dammit.

Sam looked at the bag of supplies he'd gotten from the minimart. He ripped open the M&Ms and threw a handful in his mouth. He knew he'd better not give Dean any, but he needed the energy. He popped another handful of the candies into his mouth and washed them down with the water. Dumping the rest of the water out, he pulled out the bandana full of needles and transferred them into the empty bottle. He didn't want to end up stabbing himself with any of them. After screwing the bottle's lid back on, he put it in his coat pocket along with the rest of the M&Ms. He felt a little better already, the sugar and protein kicking in. Sam slipped his blood-smeared watch and the other bottle of water into another coat pocket.

A part of him was glad for Dean's demand. Their father would probably be out of town a few more days yet, and getting back to the motel would give Pastor Jim a chance to get closer to town in case they needed him to help cover for their father's absence with the authorities. But, maybe Dean would be fine recuperating on his own. _He's hurt awfully bad, _Sam thought.

It didn't matter. Dean wanted to go home.

Taking hold of Dean's unbroken arm, Sam started to pull Dean into a fireman's carry, but his rib's protest and his brother's whimpers of pain ruled that possibility out. "Dean," Sam began and winced as Dean flinched away from him. "Brother," he corrected himself, "Can you stand?"

"Idunnoknow," Dean mumbled.

"Does you leg hurt?"

"Everythin' hurts."

"Try to move your right leg," Sam asked him.

Dean tried and met with a small measure of success.

_Maybe it's not broken!_ Sam thought elatedly. It's not hardly swollen. Maybe it's okay. Just badly bruised. _He'll limp, but he can walk._

"Brother, you're going to have to help me here, or you're going to end up going to the hospital. You hear me? I'm going to pull you to your feet. Lean on me, okay?"

Sam grabbed hold of Dean's unbroken arm. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Dean whispered.

Sam pulled hard, biting back his own cry as he pulled his brother to his feet. He wrapped his arm around Dean's waist and helped steady him. Dean groaned.

"We can wait for the ambulance if it hurts too much," Sam said, hoping Dean might change his mind.

"No. Home," Dean insisted, he words hardly even a whisper.

"Okay, big brother. Okay. Home," Sam reluctantly conceded. "C'mon, I saw a door this way." He wished he could get Dean out to that green Cadillac, but the cop cars were there and the ambulance would surely come in that way as well. He could go that way and hope…no, he'd all but promised Dean so he helped Dean hobble toward the door.

He could hear the police still hunting down some of the gang in the distance, but he hadn't heard the ambulance yet.

"You should have stayed with the cops," a Dementor sneered as he stepped out of the shadows.


	13. Chapter 13

_Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**_

_Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU._

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

_This disclaimer will prefix every chapter. _

**Rating: M. Warning.** Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

My beta did not have a chance to really read this chapter. She'd read an older version and made some good suggestions that I integrated. As I promised I would get this chapter up quickly, I've chosen to skip the beta process this go 'round. Blame me for any errors.

Thank you all for the wonderful responses I've been getting. And more reviewsfaster writing. LOL. See my bio for updates on progress of my stories. Enjoy!

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 13**

_It's a long long way from where I am to where I oughta be  
__I can't remember where I made this turn into no man's land as far as I can see  
__Stranded beaten and broken down and only one way from this place_

_--A Hundred Miles of Bad Road, Andy Griggs_

**Then:  
**_March 18__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam used his left arm to tighten his hold on Dean's waist as he calmly drew the 9-mm with his now free hand. "Get out of our way or I'll kill you," he told the Dementor.

"You won't shoot me," the thug said confidently.

"You raped me. You raped my brother. You helped do this to him. What makes you think I won't kill you where you stand?" Sam said softly, his voice ice. His arm was steady as he aimed the gun squarely at the teen. This bastard was a poor substitute for Juarez but he'd take it all the same. _Hunters don't kill humans._ That was their credo. Sam snorted to himself. _Wanna bet?_

Kase took a step back. They'd brutalized the older brother with injuries that would almost assuredly kill the teen. This younger brother they'd hardly gotten started on, but even so, he should be scared of Kase. They'd beaten him. They'd raped him. Yet he'd gotten away, crippled two of their gang, and brought the police. Oh, and let's not forget the kid found them in the first place. Kase realized they'd underestimated the Winchester boys. They had underestimated Dean the day before when Dean protected the whore, and then Sammy today. Suddenly, he knew little Sammy was serious. He'd pull that trigger given any provocation.

Sam smiled to himself, seeing the fear flicker onto the face of the teen in front of him. Fine. He'd give the hooligan one chance. Only one chance. "If I still see you by the time I reach five, I'll shoot you. I may not be as good a shot as my brother, but I can still hit my target dead on at two hundred feet with this gun. You want to test that? One. Two."

Kase hesitated only a heartbeat, then the sound of his retreating steps echoed as he disappeared into the shadows. Sam permitted himself a satisfied, if grim, smile.

After stuffing the gun back into its holster and snapping the strap, he took hold of Dean's good arm again and gently urged him forward. His brother was pure muscle and easily had a foot on him, but Sam was in as good of shape as his brother and stronger than most kids his age. Even so, Dean's weight was making Sam's breath come in gasps.

"You and your damned Quarter-Pounders with cheese," Sam muttered. He remembered their father making them take turns carrying one another out of the middle of the woods. They had to know how to get an injured man out, John had insisted. Sam had hated it. Dean was fucking heavy. This wasn't half as bad as far as helping Dean, but Sam hadn't been injured during the training. The way Dean was favoring his leg, Sam feared that leg was indeed broken. Sam knew his own adrenalin was going to run out before too much longer and then his injuries were going to be more than just the sharp pains biting at him. Supporting Dean was already a strain.

When Sam finally reached the door, he saw the padlock on it and grimaced. Could he do it with Dean leaning on him? He'd have to. He wasn't sure he had the strength to get Dean back on his feet.

"Okay, Dean," he felt his brother try to jerk away from him. He winced. He had to remember not to use Dean's name. Sam felt the tremors in his brother. "It's okay, brother," Sam said reassuringly.

"Sammy?" Dean mumbled.

"Yeah. You're going to have to lean on me, okay? If you sit down, you're going to the hospital. You have to stay on your feet. You hear me? Stay on your feet."

"Home," Dean breathed and leaned heavily on his brother.

Picking the lock was easy and he got the door open quickly. He'd caught his breath a little and, after resituating Dean, they stepped out into the cold dark night. Sam helped Dean hobble down the snowy sidewalk. After fifteen minutes and only making it five blocks, Sam was feeling the cold. The Starliner was a couple miles away and in Dean's injured condition, the cold, plain and simple, would kill him.

Sam had tried his best to get Dean home, but that just wasn't going to happen. He'd have to go back for the ambulance. He was ready to sit Dean in the niche of a doorway of a boarded up business when he spotted a cab. Frantically he waved it down. The cab pulled over and Sam got Dean into the back, then went around to the other side to slide in beside him.

"Hospital?" the young driver asked.

Sam hesitated, looking at his brother. He'd promised Dean. "No. Starliner Motel. And no questions." Sam handed over the thirty dollars to the driver.

The driver looked at the money and at the bloody and beaten brothers, then shrugged and drove the short two miles. He helped Sam get Dean inside their room.

As soon as the driver was gone, Sam called his father again, praying he'd be there. Just this once. He'd never bitch about his dad being gone again, or training, or anything, so long as John picked up the phone just this once.

The call went straight to voice mail. Sam felt his hope wither.

"Please Dad, call as soon as you can. Please Dad!" Sam cried into the phone.

Sam ended the call and went over the couch where Dean was sprawled.

"Dean, you still—" Sam began.

Dean jumped and tried to fold in on himself, away from Sam.

_Crap!_ Sam cursed. "Brother," Sam corrected himself, "how are you doing?" Sam got Dean's legs elevated, being extra careful of Dean's possibly broken leg.

Dean tried to sort the overload of stimuli, the too bright lights, the swelling dark, the pulsing noises, the chalkboard screeching whispers, the needle-prick tingles, and the fire in his nerves. Light-headed euphoria intermingled with a dark, unnamed terror, a roller coaster of joy and fear, pain and peace, terror and happiness. It was wrong. It was all wrong and it scared him.

A muted voice echoed in his ears; then he heard the word he now equated with pain and torture. Trying to move from that threat only granted a reward of more pain. He felt his own sobs. _No more!_ his mind begged.

His brother's voice was loud in his ears, like the way sounds were after a really bad drunk. His world fractured and he wondered dazedly where he was. Dean turned his head a little to look at his brother. Sammy was purple. With green hair. He giggled. "Purple. Yer purple," he mumbled. He moaned when the giggling jabbed sharp knives into his chest and stomach. No, that was the little tribal guys with their spears poking at him. He tried to slap at them, but his right arm wouldn't move. He attempted with his left instead and felt his hand smack one of them. The tiny six-inch tall tribal man fell back, yelling at Dean in a high-pitched, incomprehensible voice as it tumbled off his stomach and splatted onto the floor. Dean giggled again and knocked at each little tribal guy who was trying to bury their spears into his abdomen.

Now it was raining. Oh, that sucked. And the rain, it stung where it hit him, stung like on a cold day when little ice crystal smacked him in the face good and hard.

So why couldn't he move his right arm? Dean saw all the little ropes strung across him, like he was Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. He traveled like Gulliver. Never knew where he'd end up next. He just traveled in his dad's boat of a car instead of a boat of a boat. With little effort he threw off the ropes. "Lilliputs lose!" he crowed. He didn't like being tied down. No. Not his thing. Not his thing at all.

Sam swore as Dean slapped him. It wasn't hard, but it was on Sam's already bruised face and it still hurt. After cleaning Dean's wounds and bandaging the worst of them, Sam splinted or wrapped what broken bones he could. Dean moaned or giggled periodically, muttering now and again. Sam laid a few blankets over Dean only to have Dean push them off. Growling to himself he pulled them back over his brother.

Dean felt a cool liquid touch his lips and poured into his mouth. Leigh-Ann Sanders was in front of him, her fuzzy pink sweater falling away just enough for a tantalizing glimpse of her chest when she leaned over to give him more water. "C'mon," she cooed. "You're safe. Drink some more."

Dean tried to smile but his face hurt. He reached up with his free hand and cupped her face with it. "Yer so pretty. Wanted t'take you t'the Christmas dance. Wanted you in strappy high heels." He giggled again, then moaned at the pain. "Y'know what strappy heels mean, right?"

Leigh-Ann was gone and there was a drifting red globe bouncing around the room. He wanted to watch it, but it was too hard to turn his head to follow it.

When Sam managed to get Dean to drink a little more water, he thought Dean recognized him until Dean mumbled something about a Christmas dance and high heels.

Feeling he'd gotten Dean stable enough that he could leave Dean alone for a few minutes, he went into the bathroom and jumped into the shower, just long enough to rinse off the blood and sweat. He changed clothes, stuffing his bloodied briefs deeply into the trash, throwing more toilet paper and Kleenex on top. He wadded up the stained clothes and stuffed them into his duffel. If his dad found them, that was okay, but the briefs--he couldn't know about that. No one could know. They needed to look after Dean, needed to focus on him. Sam would be okay, he'd get through it, just so long as Dean was okay.

He re-wrapped his ribs, this time using bandages from the first aid kit, and then quickly covered the worst of his own wounds after smearing antibiotic cream on them. His hand probably needed stitches rather than bandages, but he'd deal with that after Dean was taken care of. He had a few hours yet before it'd be too late to get them.

Staring at his bruised face in the mirror, he tried to deny that part of the reason he'd given in to Dean was because _he_ wanted to get back to the motel. He didn't want anyone seeing the blood on _his_ clothes or making _him_ submit to an exam. He'd been desperately selfish, wanting to conceal his humiliation from everyone. If he hadn't been hurt, hadn't been raped, would he have made Dean go to the hospital?

"Yes," Sam whispered. "I would have." Seeing the shame in his eyes at that admission, he turned away from his reflection. He'd had his moment of self-pity. He needed to get back to his brother.

The bouncing red ball Dean was trying to watch became a beach ball, like in Dark Star or something. Sudden sharp pains were in Dean's fingers and he looked down. His fingers were stuck in a bowling bowl. He tried to shake the bowling bowl off. He didn't like it. It hurt. He cussed as he tried again and again to get the bowling ball off. Suddenly Bobby's big dog was licking his face and soon after, cats from Jim's barn were curling up all around him, warming him. That was nice. He liked cats. Cats hunted rats, so cats were mega-cool. He didn't mind the constant jabs of pain so much now and he certainly didn't want to move too much and disturb the sleeping cats.

Sam returned to his brother's side and checked on him. Dean was muttering snippets of nonsense, but his skin felt cold and clammy. Sam decided more blankets and maybe some hot water bottles would be good. They'd both gotten pretty chilled out in the cold.

As Sam was warming some water bottles, he saw Dean shaking his left hand almost frantically, like something was on it. Walking to his brother's side, he grabbed Dean's wrist in one hand as he snaked his other hand over to the bowl of water still on the rickety end table. He squeezed out the excess water as well as he could with one hand, and began wiping down Dean's face. "Its okay, Brother. It's okay. Calm down. You're going to be fine. I'm right here with you." Sam wondered if the splinted fingers on Dean's left hand were bothering him. Maybe he'd bandaged them too tightly. He studied Dean's fingers. Though swollen they had good color.

The cool cloth on Dean's face seemed to soothe him. Retrieving the water bottles from the kitchen, he put them around his brother in key locations. Dragging in their blanket from the bedroom, he added it to the others. Dean settled down considerably and Sam sighed, relieved.

Sam returned to the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of instant coffee. He'd need to stay awake to monitor his brother's condition. He swallowed a couple Tylenol for his own pain and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. His face hurt and he hoped the icepack might make it feel a little better. He returned to the floor by Dean's side, gently clutching his hand. He denied to himself that it hurt to sit certain ways, because if he acknowledged that, then he couldn't deny they'd raped him, too. And he wanted to deny that violation. More than anything, he wanted to deny it.

He continued to wipe his brother's face with a damp cloth, gently wiping away some of the blood he hadn't gotten earlier. Dean mumbled periodically, but the groans were coming more often than the giggles now. Sam wondered if the drugs the gang had given his brother were beginning wear off. If they were, maybe he'd better think about calling 911. There was no question Dean was bad, and worse, Sam had discovered blood on the back of Dean's head when he was checking him for injuries. Broken bones, possible concussion (but his pupils were equal, at least), the potential for the onset of shock, and everything else he'd seen the gang do to his brother…no. Winchesters took care of their own, but even his father would agree this was one of those times that it was beyond ice packs and chicken noodle soup to fix. There was no doubt Dean's arm would need professional tending to and probably the sooner it was looked after, the better. Even without the shattered arm, Dean's condition was simply beyond Sam's abilities to take care of and he knew it. He'd known his brother was bad, but after getting a really good look at just how bad, he recognized it was time to call for help. He couldn't wait for Jim.

If Dad got in trouble for leaving them alone, it would serve him right. Dean had tried to tell him, but the hunt was more important. Always more important. Sam stood and glanced around the dim room. Where had he put the cell phone? Coat. It was probably still in his coat. He froze when he heard a commotion outside.

"I know those little shits lives around here somewhere. Tara said the ambulance only took the cop. They came back here. I know they did. Find them!"

_Juarez._

The Dementor's voice sent a violent wave of fear coursing through Sam. He heard his brother whimper softly. All thoughts of the cell phone disappeared as he dove for the shotgun by the bedroom door. Checking to make sure it was loaded, he pointed it toward the entrance. His hands trembled and his breaths were short terrified gasps. He turned off the lamp by Dean and sat in the dark, shaking, the shotgun ready to shoot anything coming through that front door.

He heard pounding on doors and the breaking of glass. Sam's gaze cut to Dean and he covered his brother up completely, flicking one of the blankets over his head. When the pounding began on his door, he jumped.

"C'mon, Winchester, we know you're in there!"

Sam's breath caught in his chest. _They figured it out. God, they know where we are._

The pounding began again, harder this time.

"Winchester!" Juarez demanded.

Sam forced himself to take a slow steadying breath, just like his father had taught him, as he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and took aim on the door. His fear turned to determination. Whatever it took, he'd protect his brother from them. He'd kill every last one of those bastards if he had to. They were on his turf now. He had the weapons and the advantage. There were three possible entries: the two windows by the door and the front door itself. Sam was suddenly glad the motel hadn't had a room with a side window. John had wanted one, but none of the rooms had a side window. At least he wouldn't have to worry about protecting two fronts. Thirteen gang members at last count, though two shouldn't have been able to make the walk, not with the injuries Sam had given them. Who knew how many the cops had arrested, further cutting the gang's numbers. Regardless, Sam feared the shotgun wouldn't be enough. It would be useful as the first volley, but after that, he'd need a rapid fire weapon. He saw the 9-mm sitting on the end table by Dean's feet. Could they see it from the window? He crawled down to it and snagged it, pulling it to him. If he had the chance, he'd get more shotgun shells, but for now, if he made every shot count, he could take most of them out and surely the others would run if their comrades were down. Wouldn't they?

He heard pounding on the door of the empty room beside their own and again Juarez called their name. _He doesn't know which room we're in!_ Sam thought elatedly. But what if the motel clerk told them? The Dementors scared everyone. The clerk might even be convinced to give Juarez a master key. Didn't matter, he decided, and it didn't change a thing. Still three entrances, still a shotgun pointed at the door. Sam gripped the gun tighter still. The shotgun pellets would rip the pathetic wooden door to shreds and anyone on the other side. He would shoot through the door if it looked like the gang was getting ready to come in. The sound of pounding receded and Sam relaxed, lowering the gun. He gasped when the window broke and he quickly swung the muzzle of the shotgun toward the window.

"Winchester!" someone hissed.

Sam trembled as he waited for the shadow to enter the room. The pounding on the door began anew. This was it. Dammit! He hadn't had a chance to get more shells. He knew there was a box of them by the bedroom door where the gun had been leaning. Stupid of him not to grab them when he grabbed the gun! Another thing for John to be disappointed in him about.

"Cops!" he heard someone yell and Sam took a slow breath. Would the presence of the cops chase them off? Then he heard Juarez's voice. "We'll just wait for Winchesters to come out. We've got a clear view of all the doors from by the dumpster. Two shots and it's over. We've got this side. You four cover the other side. _I don't want witnesses. _You got that?"

Sam listened anxiously for the sound of a police chase, but that sound never came. He looked at his coat lying on the other side of the room. If he called 911 while the cops were still here, he could get help for Dean. He started to crawl to retrieve his coat and cell phone when the pounding and the call of his surname began again. Cell phone forgotten, he sat vigil by Dean. Intermittent pounding drifted up and down the doors. Heavy thuds came and went on his door, and each time Sam was convinced they'd been found out.

Sam sat on the floor beside the couch where his brother lay sprawled. He continued to grip the shotgun nervously, every noise outside making him jump. When the pounding on the door started again, he raised the shotgun, ready to blast through the door.

"Samuel! It's Jim! Let me in. Sam!"

Sam just stared at the door, his whole body trembling.

"Sammy! It's Pastor Jim! Sammy!"

Sam blinked, the voice and name finally registering in his frightened thoughts. He practically threw the shotgun aside as he raced for the door. With his fingers trembling so violently he had trouble getting the chain undone, he finally got the door open. He practically fell into Pastor Jim's arms.

"I didn't know what to do," Sam cried. "He wanted to come home. He didn't want to go to the hospital. He begged me to bring him home. I shouldn't have, but I didn't make him go. I should have made him go. He's really bad, Pastor Jim, he's really bad. Dad, I can't get a hold of Dad and so I called you…" The words poured from Sam in a panicked jumble.

"Shhh. I'm here now," Jim said and hugged the crying twelve year old close. "Where's Dean?"

"Over…over there. On the couch," Sam managed between tear-filled gasps. "I was going to call the ambulance but then they came and I-I-I had to get the shotgun and protect Dean in case-in case they found us. I had to cover him up all the way. They kept pounding on the door. They broke the window, too."

Jim tried to lead Sam over to the couch but Sam pulled away. After hastily shutting and relocking the door, Sam picked up the shotgun. They'd know where he was now. Sam had to be ready. He renewed his sentinel, staying out of view of the window, the shotgun pointed once again at the door. He wiped his frightened tears away. Dean wouldn't cry. He couldn't either. He needed his vision clear.

Jim went over to the couch and turned on the light. When he pulled back the blankets that covered Dean, he stared in shock at what he found. How could the handsome teenager, a smirk constantly lurking on his lips and a sparkle of mischief in his green eyes, be reduced to this bloodied and broken teen in front of him? Dean's breathing was shallow and Jim could hear the rasp in it. He wondered what terrible injuries were hidden beneath the bandages and splints Sam had applied.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Pastor Jim asked as he laid his hand on Dean's forehead. Dean's skin had a light sheen of sweat beginning to form and he didn't stir at Jim's touch. Jim tried harder to wake Dean but didn't get so much as a groan. He felt Dean's pulse. It was too fast and felt weak.

"Call 911, Sammy," Jim ordered.

Sam hesitated then grabbed his discarded coat and after a minute of hunting, dug the phone free of the pocket. After dialing the operator, he got the call transferred to the 911 dispatcher and handed the phone to Jim. He swung the shotgun muzzle back to the door.

"Yes, send an ambulance, Starliner motel, room 171. I've got a badly beaten boy here going into shock. Seventeen. Several broken bones at a guess. Yes, I'll wait….I'm his pastor. The boy's father is away on business. How long will it take the ambulance?" Jim asked. "Twenty minutes? The boy's going into shock! He can't wait twenty minutes! No. No, I'll take him myself," Jim said, disgustedly and ended the call.

Jim slid the phone into his pocket. "Get the door," he told Sam.

"Pastor Jim, they might still be out there," Sam said, fear filling his hazel eyes.

"Who?"

"The gang. The ones who did this."

Sam should have warned him, but now wasn't the time for recriminations. If the gang was going to make a move, hopefully they'd have done it by now. "They wouldn't wait long in this cold. Dean needs a hospital. Get your coat on and open the door," Jim said as he flipped the blankets back over Dean and scooped Dean into his arms.

"Yes, sir," Sam said. After shrugging into the coat that had lay near his feet, he opened the door a fraction, peeking out to make sure none of the Dementors were around. His gaze went to the dumpster but even with the help of the reflective snow cover, he didn't see much more than shadows. If they were still there and waiting, he would need to draw their fire so Jim could get Dean to safety. He opened the door and stood plainly in the doorway, the gun at his side, ready. He braced himself, waiting for the report of a gun or the shout of one of the gang. He didn't hear anything but car engines and tires crunching through ice-crusted snow on the road.

As Jim picked Dean up, fear for the teen nearly overwhelmed him. Dean shouldn't be this limp, this lifeless. Not his Dean. Not the teen that would one day take his place as Guardian. No. Dean couldn't die.

He prayed softly as he cradled the young man to him. He turned and saw Sam still standing in the doorway, a gun gripped in his right hand. "Get the passenger's door opened, Sam," Jim snapped.

Sam scanned the dark parking lot a final time. Nothing. Going to the truck, he opened the door and helped Jim get Dean situated, all the while expecting the Dementors to show. Sam squeezed in beside Dean and pulled Dean to him. He gripped the gun in his other hand, just in case.

Jim started the truck and pulled up to the motel check in. "I'll get directions, Samuel. You look after Dean."

"Yes sir," Sam said, but the words startled him. His father always told Dean to look after him. Now it was his turn to look after his brother. It shouldn't be that way. It wasn't _supposed_ to be that way. He choked back his sob. If he'd done better, he'd have found Dean sooner and Dean wouldn't be hurt so badly that _Sam_ had to look after _him_.

Jim returned to the truck a minute later and pulled out of the parking lot, all but spinning the tires on the ice.

"Keep an eye on his breathing, Sam," Pastor Jim said. "You let me know if anything changes."

"I should have never brought him home. I should have made him go with the ambulance, shouldn't I?" Sam said, sniffling. He finally set the shotgun behind the seat and pulled out the 9-mm tucked in his waistband. How long had he sat there trembling in fear instead of getting to his cell phone and bringing help? He had no idea. He hadn't been able to think past protecting his brother from the gang.

"You did what you were taught," Jim said, cursing John Winchester under his breath.

"Is Dean going to be okay?" Sam asked, his young voice small and frightened. Dean was so very pale and it terrified him that he'd screwed up yet again by not calling the ambulance. If Dean died—no, he couldn't!—it would be his fault. All his fault.

"I'm sure he'll pull through this. You know your brother's a fighter," Pastor Jim reassured him, hiding his own doubts. "Tell me what happened, Sam." Jim's eyes scanned the roads ahead. No traffic on the cross street. Jim slowed enough to make sure they were clear, then stepped on the gas and shot through the intersection and its red light. This was a night that Jim's driving put even Caleb's abilities to shame. He had, after all, run moonshine during his misspent youth. Three more streets up and he needed to turn right. Gratefully traffic was minimal, but the roads were icy and he had to be careful.

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "A gang called the Dementors had him. I-I tried to get him out, but there were too many so I ran and called the police. The police chased them away and an ambulance was on its way but Dean wanted to come home. I-I got Dean out and home and took care of his injuries. He was just hurt so badly, I was getting ready to call the ambulance when I heard the gang outside and had to get the shotgun instead." Sam took a shaky breath. "They had guns. They were going to shoot us if we tried to leave."

_That explains a lot,_ Jim thought. "Have you heard from John?" Sam had said he hadn't been able to reach John, but the boy was so distraught, Jim wanted to make absolutely certain that was the case.

"No, sir. He said he might be out of-of cell range. He's-he's s'pose to be back this weekend," Sam said, his words stumbling as he sniffled.

"Okay. I've been in town visiting friends and offered to look after you boys while your father was away. I was on the north side of Chicago when you called me. I got home just as soon as I could. I've got the power of attorney with me, so there shouldn't be any problems. How's Dean doing?" Jim didn't dare take his eyes off the road, not at the speeds he was going on the icy mess.

"He's the same," Sam said miserably.

"No, Sam that's good. That's good that he's not getting any worse."

"They gave him drugs. I've got the syringes with me."

Jim felt his gut tighten. If the gang had given Dean an overdose, surely Dean would already be dead. It had been hours. _Dear Lord, why hadn't Sam let the ambulance take Dean?_ Jim thought bitterly, but knew the answer. Damn Winchester stubbornness and the teachings that Winchesters took care of themselves. If Dean didn't pull through, those hours under a doctor's care might have made all the difference and Sam would never forgive himself. "That's a good job, Sam. You did real well. The hospital is right ahead."

Jim slid the truck into the ER driveway, shoving its gearshift into park before they'd hardly stopped moving. Sam was already out of his way when he reached in, carefully lifted Dean, and carried him inside.

"I need some help here! He's been badly beaten, is going into shock," Pastor Jim shouted. A nurse waved him through the doors and into the back. She directed him to a bed.

"He's also been given drugs," Jim said as he set Dean on the cot.

"Do you know what he took?" she asked.

Sam stepped forward, pulling out the bottle with the needles in it. "They gave these to him. The gang that did this," Sam said.

"Is he allergic to anything?" the nurse asked.

"Just penicillin," Jim said and pulled some papers from his pocket. "I've got power of attorney over the kids until their father gets back in town."

She glanced the papers over and handed them back. "Okay, Father, if you'll just go with Stacey, she'll get the information from you."

Jim took Sam's un-bandaged hand. "We've done what we can. The rest is up to the doctors and God."

Sam looked up at him. "They've got chapels here, right? Can I go there and pray for Dean?"

"I think we need to have the doctors look at you, too. You've got some nasty looking bruises and cuts on your face, and a doctor should probably look at your hand. It's bled through your bandages."

Sam shook his head. "I'm okay, Pastor Jim. It's mostly just bruises." He looked at his hand. The last thing he wanted was a stranger poking at him, but he also didn't need the wound getting infected. Reluctantly, he knew he needed stitches and needed to make sure he had gotten all the glass out of his hand. "But my hand, yeah, I think it needs stitches. I'm fine otherwise. Really. I want to go pray for Dean," Sam insisted.

Jim smiled kindly at him. "Okay," he said, trusting that the youngster, as always, was being truthful with him. "I think that's an excellent idea, Samuel. I'll move the truck and give the staff the information they need while you get your hand stitched up, and then we'll go pray together."

The doctor called for Pastor Jim two hours later.

"How is he?" Jim asked anxiously.

"Bad," the doctor said frankly. "He's in critical condition but we've managed to stabilize him for the moment. We're waiting on some lab-work and have him set up in ICU until the lab-work comes back to us. We have a lot of work left to do on him and it's going to be very touch and go for at least a few days. You're his priest?"

"Pastor. Yes. I was looking after the boys while I was in town. Their father is on a business trip. How badly is he hurt?"

"His right leg is badly fractured but it didn't suffer a complete break. His right hand and forearm approach being crushed. He'll have to undergo extensive reconstructive surgery, and we won't know if there's any nerve damage until some of the swelling goes down, but I'll be surprised if there's not. He's got four broken ribs, some bruised internal organs, a concussion, a broken nose, and a fractured cheekbone and eye socket. His spine is bruised but fortunately, no vertebrae appear to be fractured." The doctor paused and smiled down at Sam. "Are you his brother?"

Sam nodded.

"Why don't I let you in to see him—for just a minute though."

Sam's eyes grew big. "Yeah? Really?" He had figured it would be several hours before they let anyone in to see him.

"Yes, really. He's hurt pretty badly. It might look a little frightening, all the tubes and the IV and electrodes on him. Will you be okay seeing him by yourself? I need your pastor to sign some paperwork."

Sam straightened and his face lit up. "Yes, sir."

The doctor waved a nurse over. "Take him to see his brother in ICU, room six. Only for a few minutes, then bring him back, would you?"

The nurse's eyebrows lifted in surprise then gave a quick nod. "Of course, Dr. Graven."

"Shouldn't I—" Jim began but the doctor gave a small shake of his head and watched as the nurse led Sam down the hall. Dr. Graven took Pastor Jim into a private room.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked as soon as the doctor shut the door. The pit of his stomach roiled as fear clutched at him. Dean just had to pull through this.

"I wanted to tell you the rest of his injuries without his brother overhearing. He has burns on parts of his body, internal as well as external, probably from a car battery and jumper cables. I've seen these types of marks before. Some of the local gangs use torture for retribution. The victim doesn't usually survive, frankly. Dean's lucky, if you want to call it that. He's got cigarette burns on him and burns inside his mouth and throat from an acid, probably drain cleaner poured down his throat, but it appears he threw it back up, meaning it got a second chance to burn his esophagus and mouth. He has a small pharmacy of illegal drugs in his system that we're still trying to sort out, even with the syringes you supplied. At least one of the drugs was a stimulant. With it wearing off, some of the longer lasting drugs appear to be suppressing his autonomic nervous system. He'll have to go on a ventilator soon. And…" Dr. Graven paused, hating what he had to say, "he was sodomized. Repeatedly."

Jim staggered, reaching for the chair behind him as he felt his knees weaken. "Holy Father," Jim whispered, paling.

———————————————————————————————————

See Tidia's story "Black Bras and Strappy High Heeled Shoes" for Dean's reference to high heels and what they mean.


	14. Chapter 14

Summary: A rough school, an angry gang, and violent retribution leave Dean broken. Can his family find a way to bring him back from his dark world? Hurt/angst Dean and Sam. Teenchester. AU. **RATED M.**

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

_**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **_

_**After Chapter 13 was posted, the Brotherhood creators expressed a wish to the community that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid such topics as those found in Dragonfly. Dragonfly is all but written and a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators and I have talked and they have not requested I pull the story nor attempt to extract the Brotherhood from the tale. I offer this disclaimer as some measure of a compromise to prevent further upset to those involved with the Brotherhood fandom. **_

_I do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, torture, etc. that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say many of the sorts of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better. I really didn't mean for the brutality the boys experienced to be the focus, but rather how the victims and family deals with these terrible events and the psychological impact events like these can have. This is a disturbing topic and some readers may find it beyond what they care to read. My writing is graphic in some scenes though I try to be as light-handed as I can, when I can._

This disclaimer will prefix every chapter.

**Rating: M.** Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, murder, and attempted suicide.

Thank you all for your support and reviews. Some other factors are beginning to impact my time available to write, but I will post as quickly as I can. I thank my ever diligent beta for the rapid turn around of the chapter. She makes my story so much better!

As always, check my bio for updates on when the next chapter might be posted. I try to update it when I have a good estimate as to the next post.

**(((((((((((((()))))))))))))))**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 14**

_Mama they try and break me  
__Still they try and break me,  
__Scuse me while I tend to how I feel,  
__these things return to me that still seem real,_

_--Hero of the Day, Metallica_

**Now:  
**_May 15__th__, Louisville, KY_

After putting the remote control for the TV by Taz's hand, Darling went out to the counter and used the phone to call his dispatcher.

"Dispatch," a young woman answered.

"Hey, Stacy," Darling said, a smile in his voice. Stacy was a petite, dark-haired woman, bright green eyes, and maybe reached five foot in height. She came up to his chest at best and was prone to giving big bear hugs to him and others on the force. Her life partner Diana worked at one of the local hotel chains, if he remembered correctly. He'd met her a few times at picnics and she was practically the opposite of the boisterous dispatcher.

"Well, if it isn't the hero of the day," Stacy said, giving a chuckle. "Mike told us you were out of service at the hospital, jumper in custody. Still going to be out for the rest of the shift?"

"Probably," Darling acknowledged. He didn't figure he'd make it out of the hospital any time soon. Least, not if he wanted to keep his promise to Taz. "The kid's pretty messed in the head, but I've gotten him to trust me. That's calmed him down a lot, I think. You got that flyer on the missing teen, Winchester?"

He heard the rustle of papers on her end. "That's an affirmative," she said. "Missing about two weeks now it looks like. That your boy?"

"Sure is. You can mark him as found and if you would, pass that on to the shift commander. Could you fax me a copy of that flyer?"

"Memorial, Memorial," she murmured. "Ah, here's the fax number. Can do, Pete."

"When you catch a free minute," Darling continued, "could you put in a request with Chicago PD and get the police report on a teenager tortured and raped by a gang, the Dementors, about two months ago? He said it was near Chicago, but I'm hoping it was their jurisdiction."

"Kid's one and the same, I take it?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's no wonder the kid's so screwed up. Any trigger and he's back there, being tortured again."

"Jesus, Pete, how can people do that crap to one another?" she said, obviously pained by the thought.

"Beats me, Stacy," Darling said.

"Let me put you on hold, huh?" Stacy asked.

"Yeah," Darling said, turning his radio up a little wondering what call might be coming in. It had been a fairly quiet night except for the interlude of Taz's show on the bridge. He tapped his fingers on the counter, hoping it wouldn't take long. Not like he really had anything else to tell her other than thanks and goodbye. Well, he did want to check on Mike. He'd heard his partner radio dispatch that he was headed to the station. He figured if Mike was down for the shift, he'd have stuck his head in and let Darling know. Darling glanced toward Taz's room, worried about leaving Taz alone for very long. The kid had already proven himself resourceful, and there was no doubt Taz wanted to be any place but where he was. Still, so long as he kept an eye on Taz's door, he felt he could spare a bit of time.

A few infinite minutes later, Stacy's voice purred on the other end of the phone. "Who is a miracle worker?" she asked.

"Uh, Helen Keller's teacher, what's her name?" Darling said.

"No! Me!" Stacy said, sounding hurt. "Unless of course you don't want that report showing up on the fax in a few minutes."

"What? How the hell--?" Darling stammered. He didn't expect to lay hands on it before his shift started tomorrow night.

She laughed delightedly. "My cousin's an officer in Chicago's south end. Works the late shift, too. He remembers the case. Real nasty he said. He's having the report faxed to you."

"You _are_ a miracle worker, Stacy. I owe you."

"Hell, Pete, you need anything from half a dozen major cities in the U.S. and Stacy Madison is your gal. I got family on the force in all of 'em."

"Is there anyone in your family _not_ on the force?" Darling asked, recalling the various conversations he'd had with her through the years.

"Yeah. Two black sheep. One's a doctor—you've met my brother Curt--and the other went into fire fighting." She gave a snort. "Really? Fire fighting? C'mon."

"He could have been a lawyer," Darling pointed out, knowing she despised lawyers.

"Ugh. Yeah. You're right."

He chuckled at her obvious distaste. "Thanks, Stace. A lot. Thank your cousin for me."

"I only do favors for the hero of the day, you know," she said sweetly.

"I was just in the right place at the right time and I couldn't have done it without Pongo."

"And he is _so_ thrilled to be patrolling the rest of his shift with Fleming."

Darling bit back his laugh. "Ah, the rookie's still getting his footing. He's coming along just fine." He was glad to hear Mike's knee wasn't bad enough to put him out for a few days. Or _he'd_ end up with Fleming as a partner.

Hearing the fax machine chug to life, Darling told Stacy, "The fax just turned on. Thanks again, Stacy. I gotta go."

Darling hung up the phone and went over to the fax machine. Hot on the heels of the missing person's flyer was the Chicago PD's report on Taz—Dean was apparently his first name, Matthew his middle. Setting the still warm sheets on the table, he scanned over the report. His blood turned to ice as he read the report and the follow up by two detectives. The kid hadn't just been beaten up, he'd been tortured for hours, suffered gang rape, and almost didn't live through it. His younger brother, Samuel, had also be beaten and raped. The brothers had disappeared from the warehouse where it had all taken place, only to show up at a hospital a handful of hours later, Dean near death.

_Dean. They keep using Dean Winchester instead of Matt,_ Darling mused. He recalled how Taz had started to tell Darling his name was "D" and then stopped and paled. Darling had really thought Taz was going to puke again. After a moment or two, Taz had told him "Matt." Maybe "Dean" was too much a reminder of the life before the warehouse. Or maybe his story _had_ hit the news and he needed to change his name to avoid reporters. Darling turned back to the papers.

A follow-up report indicated evidence implicating Dean in the rape and murder a girl also found in the warehouse. The detectives discounted the evidence as a frame job by the Dementors, after the officers got Dean's curt and frank testimony. The final epilogue indicated Dean was considered incompetent to stand trial and was currently in the care of his father in New Haven, Kentucky. Unless new evidence came to light, they considered the case tentatively closed, unable to dredge up enough evidence against the gang.

Darling scanned the details a final time and shuddered. How had Taz come away from the encounter alive? He thought back to the terrible haunted look he'd seen in Taz's eyes. The kid had probably never experienced horrors like that and it was no wonder he was all broken up inside. Such a life-altering event could easily drive a young man to stand on a bridge and contemplate ending his life.

Folding the reports and stuffing them in his pocket, Darling decided the kid had more than earned himself some M&Ms and he hit the snack machine. Peanut M&Ms sat on the second row from the top and he dropped in the coins to buy the pack. After retrieving them from the machine, he stopped at the coffee machine and poured himself half a cup, drinking it down as quickly as the hot liquid permitted. He'd love to take a cup of coffee in with him, but he didn't want Taz to think he was teasing him with it. He couldn't offer the M&Ms or the coffee until the doctor gave the okay anyway.

Darling stood at the doorway of the room and stared in at the teenager whose eyes were locked on the TV, on CNN. The boy was gaunt, dark circles under his eyes suggesting sleep was not something he got a lot of. Except for where Greg had cleaned away the blood, Dean's face was smudged with dirt. He was surprised the boy didn't stink to kingdom come. The boy's hair was oily and looked as if he hadn't washed it in two weeks, but he should be much filthier if he hadn't bathed in some fashion. His t-shirt and jeans looked like they'd been spot cleaned here and there. "Taz," Darling said quietly.

Dean turned from the TV. Darling was pleased to see the kid didn't flinch.

"You a fan of the news?" Darling asked as he walked in and pulled a chair up beside the cot. He sat down and edged it closer to the bed.

"Sometimes. Would rather read the rags that have the stories about alien abductions and stuff. That's more interesting," Dean said softly, his gaze sliding back to the TV momentarily then clicking it off with the remote.

"You like that absurd stuff in those rags, huh?"

"It's…educational," Dean said with a private smirk.

"I'm sure your teachers approve of it," Darling said, wondering at the touch of amusement he'd seen flicker into the teen's eyes.

Giving him a half-hearted smile, Dean said, "They hated me bringing them to school. I'd really rather read car mags anyhow." A mischievous smile perched on his lips. "Or skin mags. Now those really get the teachers fired up. Apoplectic? That's the word isn't it when they about turn purple and don't know what to say."

"Yeah. How many hours of detention have skin mags gotten you?"

"A few. It was worse when my dad found them stuffed under Sam's mattress." Dean gave a grimace. "Talk about the lecture from hell. Worse, it was at Pastor Jim's. So I not only got a lecture from Dad, but had to attend every service Jim gave while we were there and paint the fence. I swear that fence has to have two-hundred coats of white paint on it."

"That their favored punishment?" Darling asked.

"Yeah. It's a fricking picket fence. Gotta wash on the dirt off first, then paint. Takes like a week. It sucks. Car mags are safer."

"So you like cars, huh?" Darling asked.

Dean brightened a little, the emptiness in his eyes shadowed with something akin to happiness. "My dad has a '67 Impala. I'm hoping he'll eventually give it to me. I had a '72 GTO coupe, but I'm not sure what happened to it." The light faded from his eyes as quickly as it had come. "They slashed the tires and jammed the locks. That's how-how they caught me." Dean stumbled over the admission. "I should have bolted as soon as I saw my tires. I was so freaking stupid. Thought I had everything under control, thought I was smarter than them," Dean said bitterly thinking back to that day. Tony'd said he didn't have a choice. After what Juarez had done to Isabelle, done to him, he understood Tony's cryptic apology and didn't blame Tony. Not anymore. He glanced back over at the officer. "I think Dad was too worried about me to even think about the car until it got towed or stolen or something. He told me it was okay, but I haven't seen it." Dean sighed. "She was a rust bucket, but I sure had plans for her over the summer. Is the doctor going to be much longer? I want my coffee and M&Ms."

As if on cue, a middle-aged woman, her short black hair bobbing as she walked, entered the room, a clipboard in her hand. "Hello, Taz. I'm Doctor Boroughs."

"Hi," Dean said quietly, suddenly relieved it was a woman doctor. He bowed his head so he didn't have to meet her gaze, but kept an eye on where she moved.

"Do you have a last name?" she asked, slowly approaching the gurney. When she saw him begin to try to draw away from her, she stopped. Dr. Boroughs knew she shouldn't push the matter until she'd had a chance to evaluate his mental condition and find out why he'd tried to kill himself. She shuffled back a step, hoping that would convey to him she was sensitive to his needed personal space. Seeing him relax a little told her she'd made a wise choice. She'd need to gain a little trust from him if she could, before getting any closer.

"Winchester. Officer Darling already called my dad." Dean mumbled. With the doctor here, he was that much closer to going back to the mental hospital. _Yeah, but I'm that much closer to getting my M&Ms and coffee_, he thought, trying to cheer himself up.

"John Winchester will be here in about twenty minutes or so," Darling told her. "And Taz here, he's seventeen, not twenty-two." He gave Dean a challenging look, daring him to counter that truth.

Giving a small snort, Dean said, "Figured it was better if I was older. Figured maybe you wouldn't be forced to track down my dad then."

The doctor changed Dean's age on his chart. "Do you have a first name, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean gave a half-hearted shrug. "I'd rather you call me 'Taz.'"

Dr. Boroughs gave him an understanding smile. "I can do that. Is that your street name? Are you in a gang?" Her eyes scanned the teen's arms for tattoos or other signs, then shook her head to herself. There weren't any real "gangs" in Louisville, at least not that she'd heard of, but she'd worked in New York City a long time and it was still a habit that cropped up now again to ask such questions.

"No gang, just their bitch," Dean murmured.

Darling's breath caught at Taz's bitter words. How could something like that happen to such a kid? He tried to imagine the horrors but pushed those thoughts away. It was just too terrible to think about. Wasn't any wonder the kid freaked whenever anyone tried to touch him.

"I'm not real crazy about my given name," Dean said. "Darling there started calling me 'Taz.' Blame him." He jerked his chin toward the officer.

She was rewarded with a shrug from Darling. "Tasmanian Devil," he said simply.

"Ah." The doctor turned back to Taz. "I assume that's in response to the report," she tapped her pen on the clipboard, "that says you weren't the most cooperative out on that bridge or in the ambulance." She looked at Taz expectantly.

Dean hesitated then nodded. "Yeah. I guess not."

"Are you still feeling uncooperative?" she asked mildly, her pen poised over the clipboard.

Dean looked over at Darling. Darling raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. He left that decision up to Dean. "No. I'll cooperate."

"Are you on any drugs, Taz?"

"No!" he snarled and met her cool gaze defiantly. "I don't do that sort of stuff!"

"Easy, Taz," Darling said and laid a hand on Taz's arm. He could feel the tension in the kid. "She has to ask that question. She's not accusing you of anything."

Cutting his eyes to Darling, he saw the man's compassionate look and his anger suddenly drained out of him. He looked back up at Dr. Boroughs. "I don't do any drugs, okay?" He paused. "I had two cigarettes earlier today, but that's it. And I'd rather you didn't tell my dad when he gets here. He hates it when I smoke."

"And does he do anything to you if he catches you smoking?" the doctor asked.

Anger snapped back into Dean face. "Why the hell is everyone convinced my dad abuses me? For the last damned time, he doesn't! My suicide attempt has nothing to do with him. I'm the one who's broken, not him!"

"It's a normal question," Darling soothed. "Just part of procedure. You get that, don't you?" he asked Taz.

"He doesn't abuse us," Dean gritted, his jaw clenched.

Darling squeezed Taz's forearm. "Okay, Taz, we hear you." Darling looked at the doctor. "Can I speak with you a minute?"

The doctor frowned at Taz's outbursts. The teen had a hair-trigger, just as the paramedic's report suggested. "Certainly," she said and waved Darling out into the hall.

Pausing at the doorway, he told Taz, "I'll be right outside the door, okay?"

Dean's eyes had grown dark. "Yeah," he said softly. "You find out what happened in Deidersville?"

Darling gave him a curt nod. "They faxed me the reports."

Looking anywhere but in Darling's face, he mumbled, "You can tell her in here."

Giving him a small smile, Darling said gently, "I don't think you need that rehashed in front of you, do you?"

Visibly paling, Dean shook his head but didn't say anything.

Once they left Taz's room, he handed Dr. Boroughs the police report and filled her in on the incident in Chicago and what Taz's father had told him. He also recounted the events on the bridge when he'd stopped Taz from jumping, Taz's violent reaction to the IV, and when Greg tried to cut his jeans.

"No wonder, "Matt" I guess it is, is a loose cannon," she said, after glancing over the police report. "I'll treat him with kid gloves," she assured Darling. She hesitated. "He's got a very touchy emotional condition. Do you think he'll cooperate if I release his wrist restraints long enough to get a look at his back? He seems prone to violence."

Darling considered a moment and then gave a shake of his head. "I don't think he is, under normal circumstances. He's scared. Violence is coming from his panic not from aggression. He punched Greg when Greg tried to start an IV on him. I'm not sure Taz really knew where he was at that point. He gets…lost, lost in _that_ past." Darling indicated the report she held. "I think he'll be okay if I'm there, no one else comes in, and if you explain to him what you're doing and you make sure he's okay with it." Darling said. "I've promised him coffee and peanut M&Ms if he cooperates and you give the okay for them. They've been good bargaining materials so far, but I think if he doesn't get them soon he's going to think I won't keep my promise to him. Then he might become more of a handful than even I can keep calmed down."

"You do seem to have a way with him," the doctor agreed.

Darling gave a self-conscious shrug. "I helped rescue him. I showed him someone's concerned about him. That's all."

She gave him a smile. "Some officers might not have taken the time to do that."

"It's an older brother thing," Darling said with a small laugh. "Gotta look out for the younger kids. He reminds me a little of my brother," Darling admitted.

"Do you think he's telling the truth that he's not on drugs?" She hadn't seen any tell-tale signs of drug use in the teen. There wasn't a haze in his eyes or a slur in his words. He seemed alert and cognizant of the happenings around him. His eyes were mildly dilated, but that was almost certainly adrenalin-induced.

"After his reaction in the ambulance?" Darling asked. "I don't think that kid would take drugs unless you force-fed him and you'd probably lose a few fingers in the process. The police report said he had a slew of drugs injected into him by the gang. I don't imagine it helped that the psychiatric hospital restrained him and gave him drugs, after he thought he was abandoned by his father. No, I'd wager a year's pay that the kid's tests will come back clean."

"Anything else I should know?" Dr. Boroughs asked. For a moment she felt as if she were back in New York all over again. She'd worked in a hospital that saw its share of injuries resulting from gang violence, drug users, drive-by shootings . . . after ten years, she'd had enough and readily accepted the job in Kentucky. Heart patients, accident victims, drunks, these were the things she typically dealt with now.

"You might want to check his hand, the one that's cuffed to the cot. That was the one he slipped free of the restraint."

She gave a nod. "I'll check that hand for injury."

"It looked okay earlier when we got here, but the kid seems to have one helluva high tolerance for pain."

"I appreciate the information, Officer Darling. Can I keep these?" she asked, indicating the police reports he'd given her to read.

"Yeah, I figured the psychiatrist would probably like to read them, but I should get a copy of them for when I write up my own report."

"Okay. I'll see you do. Best we not leave him too long."

They returned to the room. Dean was back to watching CNN and ignored their presence.

"Taz, I'm going to take your vitals, okay?" Dr. Boroughs asked.

"Do what you have to. I just want it done so I can have my coffee," Dean muttered coldly, his eyes determinedly focused on the TV.

When she folded the blanket back from his left arm, he stiffened and turned his face from her, no longer caring about the news. She noticed the faint bruising around his thumb, but would check that in a few minutes. She stretched out the cords from the pulse oximeter and clipped it on his finger.

Dean's eyes widened and he stared down at the clip on his finger. He started to struggle. "No, please," he keened, unadulterated panic in his face. "Don't. Please, don't." He began to shake violently.

Stunned by his reaction, Dr Boroughs stepped back. Taz's heart rate soared. She quickly took the oximeter off his finger, unsure why it elicited such a reaction, but assumed it was the source.

Darling quickly moved to Dean's side and took his hand. "Hey, Taz, it's okay. You're safe here. No one is going to do anything to you."

"The battery," Dean whispered, "don't let them use the battery again. I'll do what you want. Please, I'll do what you want."

Darling's jaw clenched and he knew that, as far as Dean was concerned, he was back in the warehouse, being tortured by the gang.

"Taz, it's Officer Darling. You're not at the warehouse. You're safe from the gang. The Dementors aren't here. You hear me, Taz? They can't hurt you." He looked at the doctor. "Release his arm."

She scowled at him, but reluctantly did as he asked while he unlocked the handcuff and released Dean's arm closest to him. Immediately Dean clutched at Darling and sobbed into his shoulder as he struggled to pull his legs free of the restraints. Darling gently put his arm around Dean's back. "Shhh, Taz. You're okay. You're okay. Calm down."

After a few minutes his sobs faded and his struggling subsided. He pulled back from Darling, he brow creased in confusion, his face pale.

_He looks so young,_ Darling thought as he squeezed Taz's shoulder. "You're in the hospital, Taz. You tried to jump off a bridge. I'm Officer Darling."

Dean wiped his eyes, the almost tears ready to flow. "Yeah. I remember," Dean said slowly. He looked at the doctor as she handed him a tissue. He snatched it from her with a glare and blew his nose. He spotted the trashcan and lobbed the Kleenex into it. "I'm okay," he said to Darling then met the doctor's gaze, challenge blazing in his eyes. "You try to clip that damned thing to my finger again and I won't care about any M&Ms or coffee or that punching a girl is wrong. Got it? I don't know what that clip thing does and I don't care. It's not going on my finger."

"It monitors your vitals," Dr. Boroughs said, "but we can do this the old fashion way, at least to start with. Are you okay with me using a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope?" She'd have rather had the oximeter on him, but after that reaction, was willing to skip the full-time monitoring unless he proved to have worse injuries than were immediately apparent. The paramedic hadn't been able to examine him, and if he did have a high pain-threshold, he might be worse off than she realized.

"Yeah." He looked down at the open restraints and slowly put his wrists back across them. His lips were pressed together and his body tensed.

Recalling the police report, Dr. Boroughs remembered that the police had found the teen tied to a chair and beaten within an inch of his life. Her eyes went to Darling who gave a small nod and shifted his weight so it was clear he'd stand next to Taz. If Taz started to get out of hand, he'd be there to control the teen. "Why don't we do this with your hands free?" she said. "I want to examine your back and we'll need blood and a urine sample and it'll be easier this way."

"Really?" Dean asked, his voice filled with a mix of hope and skepticism.

"So long as you stay calm and don't become violent. Do you think you can manage that?" she asked.

Dean swallowed hard and looked down at the restraints. "I'll try. Just don't do anything without telling me first?" He winced, thinking back to the past weeks at Pastor Jim's farm and added quietly, "If you surprise me, I might hit you without really meaning to."

"Then let's try not to surprise you," Dr Boroughs said. "I won't lie to you Taz. We'll have to put you back under restraints after the exam. You understand?"

"If I can have one hand free to drink my coffee, I'll be cooperative," he bargained.

"Let's see how you do," Dr. Boroughs said cautiously, but gave Darling an amused look. Taz really wanted that coffee.

Dean frowned and finally nodded. "Okay. But I think I'm getting a rotten deal, especially if I cooperate and you still put me back in those things." As he spoke, some of his tension eased. He folded his arms across his chest as if to comfort himself or to keep his wrists hidden in the event she changed her mind. He winced and resituated his right arm, the IV in the crook of his elbow pinching.

"I need to get your blood pressure, Taz," she told him and picked up the sphygometer, showing him the blood pressure cuff.

He reluctantly held out his arm for her. He jumped when she started to wrap the cuff around his arm. "You okay?" she asked, pausing.

"Yeah," Dean said unhappily. "Go on. Do what you have to."

She finished wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his left arm and inflated it with a handful of squeezes to its bulb. After slipping the earpieces of the stethoscope on, she showed him the stethoscope and he nodded. Placing the head of the stethoscope in the crook of Dean's elbow, she twisted the dial and took the BP reading and jotted the results and time onto his chart. Knowing it would be best to get his pulse while she listened to his lungs rather than to try to grip his wrist, she told him, "I'm going to slip this under your shirt and listen to your lungs."

He gave a nod and looked away from her. He locked gazes with Darling as if trying to draw strength from the officer. Darling gave him an encouraging smile and put his hand on the bed railing, letting Dean know he was there if Dean needed him. Dean drew in shaky breaths and tried to stay focused on the present.

"Take a deep breath," she told him each time she shifted the location of the stethoscope. She paused long enough in listening to his lungs to get his pulse. She wasn't surprised it was rapid.

"I'm going to place the stethoscope on your back now, okay Taz?"

He gave a nod but ground his teeth. She placed the stethoscope gingerly on his back, trying to avoid any obvious wounds and repeated the procedure.

"So am I alive?" he asked her when she stepped back from him. His voice was strained and tight.

"No," she told him. "I'll get you a toe-tag in just a minute."

He broke into sudden laughter. "That'd freak my dad but good." He straightened a little and gave her a sly smile. "Well, hey doc, if I'm dead then I guess I don't need these restraints anymore."

She gave him a sour smile. "Nice try, Taz."

His smile turned into an embarrassed grin. "Hey, it was good logic. You're the one who declared me dead."

She gave a small laugh, but was pleased to see Taz had seemed to relax a little more around her. The deer in the headlights look had faded from his eyes, but she knew it would take little to bring it back. She handed him a sample container and some cleaning cloths. "I need a urine sample. Sorry, but I have to watch and make sure it's uncontaminated. Wipe down first, then give the sample."

Dean looked up at Darling. "I don't mind a girl seeing me, but do you have to watch, too?"

Darling chuckled. "You must have a tough time in the men's bathrooms, kid." He turned his back. "You even hint at trying to take advantage of your partial freedom…" he warned, making sure he still had Taz in his peripheral vision.

"I get it," Dean said, exasperation clear in his voice. "I'm not going to try anything."

Dean did as the doctor said then handed over the sample container, zipped his jeans, and pulled the blanket back up. He wiped his hands clean and tossed the disposable cloth into the trashcan she held up for him. He felt cold again. The ambulance had gotten toasty warm but the big rooms in the hospital seemed to leach the heat from his very bones.

"I need to get some blood samples, too. I can use your IV that's already in if that's okay with you?"

"You won't find anything but maybe a couple swallows of whiskey some old geezer gave me when I gave him my coat, the nicotine from the cigarettes, and whatever caffeine I didn't puke up."

"I still have to have the tests done." Pulling out four vials, she wrote some notes on each, and then walked around to his right arm. Darling shifted to Dean's left side.

"I'm going to disconnect the I.V., draw off a little blood that's been diluted by it, then fill these vials and reconnect the I.V.," she told Taz. She saw him tense but he reluctantly straightened his arm so she could access the I.V. She felt his eyes on her, watching her every move. When she started to reconnect the IV, she heard Taz inhale sharply. She looked up and saw Darling lay a hand on Taz's arm. "No drugs. I promise," he reassured the teen.

She looked in Taz's face and saw the distrust. "I'm just reconnecting it. I'm not putting anything in it."

Dean glanced at the IV tubing, at Darling, then his gaze returned to her. He gave a nod. She reconnected the IV after running the air out of it.

"Are you okay with me examining you, giving you a once over?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" He had relaxed a little since she'd let go of the IV.

"You can refuse treatment, at least until your father gets here."

He seemed to consider the option for a moment, then a sigh whispered from his lips. "He'll make me let you and I'd rather you than some guy doctor."


	15. Chapter 15

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in the following story. Having poured nearly a year of my life into this story, and having already posted about a third of the story, a revamp to exclude the Brotherhood would be most difficult at this point. Not impossible, but difficult enough that I choose not to do so and can only offer apologies to Brotherhood fans who have found offense, and to the creators of the Brotherhood.

I, of course, do not condone in any fashion, the abuse, violence, rape, and torture that occurs in this story. That such things occur in the world we live in is horrifying. The aftermath of such deeds lasts a lifetime for those affected, both directly and as collateral damage. I wish I could say the sort of events I've depicted in Dragonfly are an exaggeration of reality, but unfortunately, I know better.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 15**

_So where were you  
__When all this I was going through  
__You never took the time to ask me  
__Just what you could do_

—_Fade, Staind_

**Then:  
**_March 19__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam tried his hardest to stay awake, waiting with Pastor Jim for the doctor to come and give them an update on how Dean was doing. He was grateful he'd been allowed to see Dean briefly in ICU while the doctor talked with Pastor Jim, but it had made Sam even more afraid for his big brother. Dean was so pale and all those cables and tubes wrapped around him like tentacles of some great beast. They even had him on a ventilator! Sam had taken his brother's hand and whispered that he was there, but Dean hadn't reacted; not that Sam had really expected he would, but he'd hoped Dean might all the same. Scariest of all was just how cold and lifeless Dean's hand had felt in his.

Sam leaned his head back against the wall behind his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. The feeling of safety in the form of the pastor at his side and the warmth of the hospital was taking its toll on the exhausted boy. He'd been on an adrenaline high since he'd realized the Dementors had taken his older brother and that adrenalin was long since gone. There was nothing he could do now but pray, wait, and worry about Dean.

Sam had done his best to stabilize his brother, as their father had taught him, until the Pastor could get to them. The look on Pastor Jim's face had told him he should have allowed the paramedics to take Dean to the hospital, though the kind Pastor would never criticize Sam's decision verbally. Sam couldn't tell him the real reason why he let Dean convince him to return to the motel. The pastor shouldn't—couldn't—know Sam's shame. Sam could argue that their father always insisted that hospitals were a last resort, only to be used in the most dire of circumstances, though Sam had never been sure exactly what circumstances those were. After all, he'd seen both his father and his brother badly injured before and John had patched them up without the aid of a hospital. Broken bones meant a trip to the twenty-four hour clinic, but going to a hospital was a rare event. _I guess I know what dire means now,_ Sam thought bitterly, trying to convince himself that he hadn't been sure, that he had believed some stitches and cold packs and setting of bones would be enough for Dean.

It was a lie. He knew better. He'd known better when he first saw Dean in the warehouse. If his brother died, it would because Sam hadn't been strong enough to face the doctors and his own humiliation. If his father had been in town, he wouldn't have hesitated and would have waited for the ambulance to take Dean to the hospital. He'd have slipped away and gone to the Starliner, calling his father after he'd cleaned himself up.

Sam's thoughts turned fully to his father and felt his anger swell. He wasn't just angry, he was furious. He was madder than he could ever remember being with John Winchester. Dean had warned their dad that something was going to happen. So had Sam. But no, their father wouldn't listen to his sons. After all, they were just being harassed by _kids_, and surely tough Winchesters could handle _that_. The hunt was more important than his sons' welfare. Sam got that message loud and clear. He realized now that he had known it for some time, but somehow he had always believed that if push came to shove, their father would be there for them. It was a bitter realization and one he could no longer avoid. It suddenly dawned on him how hard Dean, Pastor Jim, Caleb, and Mac had worked to shield him from that truth. They had all given him excuses for his father missing important events, or not being there when he or Dean was sick or hurt. Well, it didn't matter any more. He and Dean would take care of each other. Just like always. He'd _never_ count on his father again. _Ever._

Sam shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable in the plastic chair and stifled a groan. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, not only was he tired, but Sam was feeling his own injuries. He had insisted to Pastor Jim that he was only bruised and certainly nothing that needed a doctor's attention, which was mostly true. Although he might have a cracked rib if the stabbing pain in his side was any indication, he could and had wrapped that himself. Fortunately the Pastor had been worried enough about Dean to take Sam at his word. After all, the boy always told him when he was hurt. Sam felt a small pang of guilt over taking advantage of the Pastor's trust, but he didn't want anyone touching him right now. Especially not strangers. Besides, Dean had taken the brunt of the attack, not Sam. Dean had been brutally beaten, not Sam. Dean had been raped, yes, that was what they had done to Dean, not Sam. No, Sam could never admit that had been done to him as well, particularly, he could never admit it to Dean. Sam was fine. He had to be, for his brother.

Sam opened his eyes when he heard familiar footsteps pounding in the hallway leading to the emergency room waiting area. Sure enough, they belonged to his father. Sam sighed softly as his father stormed into the waiting room, finding him and Pastor Jim.

John Winchester was a big man, over six feet tall and, to Sam, seemed even larger most of the time. When his emotions were rampaging, as they were now, he seemed ten feet tall to his son. John's raking gaze took in the bruises peppering his youngest son's face, who remained seated, while Pastor Jim rose from his chair to greet John.

"What the hell happened?" John demanded, his dark eyes flashing. He'd been driving on snow covered roads at speeds that in the best of conditions could be considered reckless. The terror in his baby boy's voice had frightened him to his very core. The long drive had been torturous, nothing to do but imagine his eldest was dead or dying. He'd called both Sam's and Dean's phones again and again, getting nothing but voicemail, which drove the knife of terror deeper into his gut. He hadn't left messages. He hadn't wanted his boys to hear his own fright.

With neither of his boys answering their phones, John had called information and gotten the names and numbers of the three hospitals closest to the motel. St. Agnes confirmed a boy matching Dean's description was brought in by a younger boy and a priest. They wouldn't give him any more information than that. He'd cussed the poor woman out, but she'd kept her cool and reconfirmed hospital policy wouldn't let her give out information on the boy's condition no matter who the caller said they were. She would check with the family and have them call him back if he'd leave a number. He'd told her to have them call Dean's father that they'd know the number and he slammed the phone shut. It was all he could do not to launch the phone out the window. She wouldn't even tell him if his boy was alive!

No one ever called.

As he'd drawn closer and closer to the hospital, the questions in his mind became more and more panicked. Was Dean alive? How badly had he been hurt? How had he been hurt? Was Sam okay?

He'd barely parked the Impala before he was out and all but running to the emergency room doors. He'd nearly fallen once in the icy parking lot and then again when his wet boots hit the linoleum floor. The four minutes it had taken to find out where Sam—Sam was okay!—and Jim were felt like an eternity.

Pastor Jim laid a hand on John's arm, hoping to calm the frantic father. "John, you need to calm down. We're waiting to hear from Dean's doctor. He should be out any time now."

John felt a fraction of his fear dissipate as his breath left him. "He's alive."

"For now," Jim said softly. "He's in critical condition and they weren't willing to give me anything resembling his chance of survival last time we spoke."

"What the hell happened?" John growled, his fear inching back up. _No, no, no! _The boys were all he had left of Mary. They were more precious to him than anything else in the world. Dean had to pull through this. Whatever had happened, Dean had to pull through this!

With a helpless shake of his head, Jim said, "A gang. They beat and tortured him, and John," Jim hesitated then rushed forward with his words, "they raped him."

John's eyes widened in horror. "What?" his voice was hardly a whisper as he tried to grasp what his friend was telling him. Dean was—he'd been—no, not his son, this couldn't have been done to his little boy—no, Jim had to have it wrong.

Jim nodded slowly, his eyes a reflection of John's own anguish. "Sodomized. Repeatedly. I'm sorry, John."

John stood motionless, stunned. His little boy had been raped? How could…how could that have happened? How could Dean have _let_ that happen to him? Didn't he fight them? God, of course he fought them. John berated himself for even thinking such a thing. His boy fought them with everything he had or he wouldn't be in the hospital in critical condition and …and…maybe not living through another day, another hour, another minute.

John shrugged off the Pastor's hand, and turning to his youngest son, he ordered, "Tell me what happened." He took in Sam's beaten face, and the smoldering fear, anger and exhaustion in his boy's countenance. His own fear coiled tighter in him. He wanted to shake Sam, make him tell him everything that happened, how it happened. Then he wanted to wrap his boy in his arms and hold him close and tell him it was going to be okay and that whoever did this was going to pay in ways they couldn't begin to imagine.

Sam rose stiffly to his feet, facing his father. The pain and anger he felt sharpened his voice, "Dean got the crap beat out of him. But don't worry, it can't possibly be bad because they're just kids after all, and we can take a bunch of kids harassing us."

"Sam," Pastor Jim said, a soft warning in his voice, reaching to place a hand on the boy's shoulder only to have Sam jerk away.

John's eyes narrowed. This was not the time for Sam to get one of his pre-teen, sullen, smart-ass attitudes. This was not the time for insolence from his children, no matter the circumstances. The hours of fear had left his nerves raw and any hint of patience John possessed had long since been burned away. "Watch your tone, Sam," John snapped. "Just tell me what happened."

"That bunch of kids decided to teach him a lesson." Sam didn't heed the warning in his father's voice just as he'd ignored Jim's. Angrily, he snarled, "They had him for over six hours, beating him, tearing him apart because you don't give a damn about us and wouldn't listen when we both told you we were in trouble. You care more about the damn hunt than your own sons!"

The frustration, helplessness, and pain of the past hours boiled over in Sam and he took it out on the convenient target of his father, "Just go back to your hunt, Dad! That's all you care about! We don't need you! Just go away!" Sam pushed John roughly in the chest to emphasize his words. "Go away!" he shouted at him.

Suddenly John felt a stinging in his palm, followed quickly by the shock of realizing that he had just slapped his son. He saw Sam stagger back, the boy's hand going to his face as his hazel eyes widened in astonishment. John didn't miss the way Sam's other arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. For a moment, they all froze in shock. Never had John laid a hand on either of his sons in anger. To discipline, yes, but that was just a spanking when they had been younger. When teaching the boys hand-to-hand fighting, yes, he'd hit them but that, too, had been controlled. Never had he struck either one in blind anger. Until now.

Sam recovered first. Dodging around his father and Pastor Jim, he ran out of the waiting room. Even hurt and angry, he knew better than to run out into the night alone. He was injured and too easy a target if the Dementors were still around. More importantly, he didn't want to leave Dean.

_If it's just going to be me and Dean, I guess we'll have to put up with Dad and his sporadic appearances. I wonder how soon Dad'll be leaving on his next hunt. Probably as soon as he finds out Dean's going to live. The sooner he leaves the better,_ Sam thought darkly. With leaving the hospital not an option, Sam ran down the hall, turning to take the left corridor at the end that led to the men's room. Sam was grateful that at this late hour of the night no one else was in the restroom. He sank slowly into a corner, curling in on himself, burying his face in his knees as he wrapped his arms around his drawn up legs, no longer able to contain the sobs that overwhelmed him.

At some point he'd heard the door creak open and he knew, simply knew, it was Pastor Jim. With every fiber of his being, he willed Jim to go away. Several seconds later he heard the door shut and no footsteps whispered across the floor toward him. He felt a mixture of relief and abandonment. He didn't want Jim or his father to see him bawling like a two year old while at the same time he wanted strong arms to hold him and tell him it was all going to be okay, that everything was going to be fine, that they loved him, and that Dean was already awake and cracking jokes. His tears came harder and his sobs were soft wails echoing from the depths of his soul.

It took him a long while to regain control of his emotions as he cried himself out. When he finally calmed down, a small, snide little voice in his head told him he really deserved more than a slap from his father for his behavior. The now sharp throbbing in his side was well deserved punishment, too. What had possessed him to yell at his father like that, much less push the man? He really did love his dad and the last thing he wanted was for John to go away. He was just scared for Dean and he hurt, aching just about everywhere, and his father was such a good target for all of the anger the fear and pain created. It was all too easy to be angry with someone who's not there, to blame him for everything. The truth was, Sam was more furious with himself for not realizing sooner that Dean was missing and not getting Dean away from that gang faster. He'd failed Dean and failed his father. John trusted the boys to look out for each other and Sam had done a terrible job of watching his brother's back.

With a sigh and a grunt of pain, Sam pushed himself up from the floor. He knew he'd better return to the waiting room before Pastor Jim or, heaven forbid, his father came looking for him again. Making his way to one of the sinks, Sam turned on the cold water to splash it on his face in an attempt to remove the signs of his crying. Sam didn't want to give his father more reasons to be mad at him, or more disappointed at his weakness. Sam knew he didn't meet his father's expectations, but now his father no longer met his.

After toweling his face dry, Sam examined his cheek where his father had slapped him. The slight bruise was hardly noticeable amongst the other harsher bruises. That was good he supposed. His eyes were still red-rimmed, however there simply was nothing he could do about that. He tossed the paper towel into the trash as he made his way out of the bathroom and back to the waiting room. He hoped the doctor had finally come with news on his big brother.

When he reached the waiting room's door he was surprised to find two strangers, a man and a woman, talking with his dad and Pastor Jim. Sam hung back, trying to find out what was going on before announcing his presence. The strangers had their backs to him, so they didn't notice his arrival, but he saw his father's gaze flick over to him briefly, acknowledging his return, but not encouraging Sam to join them.

The man was saying, "…Winchester, we know your son, Dean, was attacked by a gang and we also know that your other son, Sam, was the one who called the police and that he showed up at the warehouse once the police went in. We need to talk with Sam. The sooner the better."

"My son's been through a lot tonight," John answered gruffly. "I think this can wait until tomorrow."

"I can appreciate that you want to protect him," the man said with compassion. "I have four kids of my own, so believe me, I can understand. But it would be best if we can talk with Sam tonight, while it's still fresh in his mind."

John's eyes involuntarily went again to his youngest son who was still lingering just inside the doorway. Sam looked wiped out, painfully reminding John how young his boy truly was, that he wasn't even a teenager yet. John really didn't want to traumatize the boy any more right now. He needed to talk to Sam himself, to apologize for doing the unthinkable, to try to ask for Sam's forgiveness. How could he have ever hit his baby boy? He needed to try to heal his sons. He needed these intruders gone.

Noticing the father's furtive gaze, the female officer glanced over her shoulder and spotted the boy. She stood, slipping around the row of chairs before John could stop her. She approached Sam slowly, as though sensing the boy might bolt at any moment. He'd told the 911 operator that he hadn't been hurt, but his bruised face and injured hands belied that. He'd apparently had his own run-in with the Dementors. She hoped that he hadn't suffered at their hands the same ways his brother had. She tucked a loose strand of her chin length auburn hair behind her ear as she leaned down to make herself closer to Sam's height and spoke gently, "Hi. You must be Sam. My name's Gretchen. I'd like to talk to you for a minute. Would that be okay?"

Sam glanced to his father and after seeing the brief nod of permission answered tentatively, "Yeah. Are you a cop?"

Gretchen smiled at the boy, not missing the way he looked to his father. "Yes, I am. That's my partner, Jason, over there with your dad. We're detectives with the special crimes unit and we'd like to talk to you about what happened tonight."

Sam shrugged noncommittally. He wasn't good at talking with strangers; well, school didn't really count. Even though he was a little shy, his did okay at talking with strangers at school simply because he'd had to do it so often. But outside of school? No, he didn't like it at all. Right now would be the time Dean would step between him and whoever, protecting his little brother and doing the talking himself. Sam wished fervently that Dean would come to his rescue now. Sadly, he realized that was going to become a recurring theme for a long time to come, while Dean recovered. He ignored the biting little voice in his head that said '_if_ he recovered'.

"Why don't we sit down over here?" Gretchen motioned to two chairs away from the door, yet somewhat distanced from the other people in the waiting room. She didn't want the boy darting out the door if he got uncomfortable. She also didn't want him close enough to his father to be intimidated by the man. Gretchen's instincts were telling her that this boy in front of her was fearful of his father, but she wasn't certain if it was because of the night's events or something deeper. She truly hoped she wasn't dealing with an abused child as well as a victim of the gang. The boy's bruised knuckles suggested he'd fought against his attackers, bolstering her hopes that the boy wasn't abused.

She situated herself in the chair that would face his father so the boy was forced to keep his back to Mr. Winchester. The doorway was off to their left, but distanced enough it wasn't an easy escape path. Gretchen smiled at the youth. She could see he'd been recently crying and wondered how many of those tears had been over what had happened to him and how many had been shed for his brother. Some, she supposed, was surely a merging of both.

Sam took the chair indicated. His father was to his back and that comforted him. If anyone tried to come up behind him, he knew his dad would be on them maybe faster than Dean could have been. He wished he was closer to his father, but at least he was as close as he could be. He forced himself not to wince as he sat down to keep the officer from seeing the pain he was in. He had the distinct feeling if he did, she'd bring it to his father's attention and his dad would force him to be examined by the doctors. He didn't want that. From the depths of his soul, he didn't want that. He couldn't help asking, "Have they said how Dean's doing yet?"

Gretchen nodded and knew then that many of Sam's tears had surely been for his big brother. "The doctor was talking to your dad when we arrived. He's still in critical condition and unconscious."

"Does that mean he could," Sam choked on the next word, wanting vehemently to deny the possibility, "die?"

Gretchen saw the anguish in the young boy and wished she could tell him the lie she wanted to. "He's not stable yet," she slowly acknowledged, "and it might be a day or two until he's out of the woods. They're going to let your father see him in a little while and I'm sure he'll be able to tell you more after that."

Sam nodded in acknowledgment, forcing his tears back, but the accusations rang in his mind. He should have let the paramedics take him. If Dean died, it would be his fault because he waited too long to get him help, because he was too ashamed to admit what the Dementors had done to him, too. His eyes slid down to examine his shoes. He didn't want this perceptive woman seeing the guilt he felt. Nor how much he wanted his big brother back.

"Sam," Gretchen spoke softly, resisting the urge to lay a reassuring hand on the boy's arm, "can you tell me what happened tonight?"

"Dean got attacked by that gang. The Dementors."

A small smile tugged at Gretchen's lips in response to the simple answer. "Yes, we know. Can you tell me what led up to that? Was there a reason they targeted Dean?" She knew the Dementors were a violent gang and would sometimes attack individuals randomly, but the injuries Dean Winchester had sustained were clearly retributory.

The boy shrugged his slight shoulders and mumbled, "'Cause Dean had to try to be some kind of stupid hero."

She grimaced to herself. Theirs was not a neighborhood where heroes survived long. "What did he do?"

"Defended some girl that Juarez attacked in school yesterday. Dean got in Juarez's face about it and backed him down. He thinks he even broke Juarez's nose. Guess Juarez didn't like that too much." Unconsciously, Sam started rocking slightly back and forth in his chair, a habit that he'd supposedly broken several years ago. It hurt to do that, but he didn't care. He needed that small comfort. His voice was filled with bafflement. "She wasn't even Dean's type, you know?" He looked in the woman's eyes as if demanding an explanation.

"He's the kind of person who defends those who are weaker?" she asked. Sam nodded, dropping his eyes back to the floor. Gretchen added, "I bet he takes real good care of you, too." Again the boy nodded. She was accustomed to traumatized children being anything but talkative. In most cases she knew it was just finding the right questions to ask, coupled with forging some level of trust. "What happened next, Sam?"

Before Sam could answer, a doctor entered the waiting room and Sam realized the man was heading straight for John. Sam jumped up, slipping away from Gretchen, joining his father in time to hear the doctor say that Dean was settled in a room and John could go see him. Sam started to follow his father, but they were stopped by the doctor's words directed at John.

"I don't think it's a good idea for the child to go in." the doctor said. "It's against policy to allow children into the ICU."

"Dr. Graven let me in," Sam said defiantly. "I want to see Dean."

John looked down at Sam's pleading gaze and found he was unable to deny his youngest boy. "I think he can handle it," he told the doctor, his dark eyes daring the doctor to contradict him.

"Mr. Winchester, I'd like to talk with Sam some more," Gretchen spoke up from behind John. "Why don't you let him stay here with me while you see Dean?"

"No." John told her flatly. "Sam's been through enough tonight. He needs to see his brother and then he needs to get some rest. You can talk to him tomorrow. Now excuse us." John took Sam's shoulder, ignoring the slight flinch he felt go through his son at the touch, guiding the boy roughly past the detectives and the doctor and down the hall leading to the ICU.

Pastor Jim quietly followed the Winchesters, stepping around the frustrated officers. He ignored their pleading looks to him. He agreed with John whole heartedly. If they'd arrived earlier, Jim would have sat with Sam and encouraged him to answer their questions. With the doctor letting them in to see Dean, though, Sam needed to be there, with his family. Jim had seen the boy shaken numerous times in his young life, but he'd never seen Sam as he was now. He thought, or at least hoped, that the time spent in the chapel praying for Dean had helped comfort Sam, if only just a little.

Half way down the hall, once John realized the cops were respecting his request to be left alone, he stopped Sam, turning the boy to face him. "Sammy, before we see your brother, you need to know…he's gonna look pretty bad and he's on a ventilator."

Sam pulled away from his father's grip. "Yeah, I know. I've already seen him once and I'm the one who patched him up before we brought him here, remember?" His words were scathing.

John took a deep, calming breath at Sam's tone, trying hard to rein in his temper. "Sam…"

Closing his eyes briefly, Sam opened them to look contritely at his father. "I'm sorry. Can we please just go see Dean? I just want to see him again." Sam knew Dean was alive but a tiny part of him was convinced Dean wasn't going to make it. He wanted to be by his brother and tell him how very he sorry he was. He'd screwed up so badly, in so many different ways. He felt his tears try to renew their flow but he fought the surge of emotions back. He wasn't going to cry again. He wasn't.

"Sammy," John began, "I'm sorry for—"

"I know, Dad," Sam interrupted softly. "Let's just go see Dean. Please?"

"Okay." John sighed. He followed Sam as they started down the corridor to the ICU once more. John eyed his youngest son, noticing how the boy was keeping his arm close to his ribs, almost protectively. He also didn't like the way Sam flinched when he had placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. His gut told him it had to do with more than just the slap earlier. He turned to Jim who was following him, and spoke quietly to the pastor, "Did a doctor check out Sam?"

Sam had already hit the buzzer to the ICU. "We're here to see Dean Winchester," he said forcefully. He was already eyeing the door's construction. Jut let them try to keep him out.

Jim's blue eyes met John's, guilt clear in them. "No," he whispered back. "Sam insisted he was fine. Only bruised." Concern filled his eyes as they shifted to watch the boy. "You think he's hurt?"

John nodded grimly and followed Sam into ICU. One glare at the nurse kept her from stopping Sam. She indicated Dean's room wordlessly.

Knowing what had been done to Dean, John could only hope that Sam was telling the truth…that he'd only suffered some bruises from the ordeal. His concerns for Sam, however, were pushed aside momentarily as they reached Dean's room.

Sam pushed open the door, halting a couple of steps in to stare at the bandaged, frighteningly still form of his big brother. His gaze took in the tubes protruding from Dean's mouth and nose, as well as the lines connecting him to an IV and various monitors. He looked so much worse than he had when he'd first seen Dean those hours ago. The bruises had darkened, the swelling seemed worse, and there were so many bandages. Sam didn't remember all those bandages before when he'd seen him. All the tubes and wires seemed to have tripled in number, too. Involuntarily, Sam jumped as his father's large hand settled onto his shoulder again. Once he recognized the touch, Sam leaned back into the strong presence of his father, seeking much needed comfort, his anger at the man pushed aside for the moment by his fear for his brother. Together, they slowly approached Dean. Sam felt tears welling in his eyes and he tried to blink them away before his father noticed, but despite his efforts they fell down his cheeks. Through the hand on his shoulder, Sam could feel his father tremble and risked a quick glance up at the man, shocked to see tears on his father's face as well.

John broke his gaze from his battered, oldest son to look down at his youngest, and gave Sam what he hoped was a reassuring, if somewhat watery, smile. "He's going to be okay, Sammy. He just looks a little rough right now and needs some rest. But he'll be okay."

"The officer, she said he still might…die." The last word was whispered, as if saying it too loudly might make it happen.

John growled to himself, cursing the officer's frankness to the boy. "No, Sammy. He'll be fine."

Sam didn't look convinced by his father's words as he turned back to his battered brother and stepped up to the bedside. Carefully, he reached through the bed's railing and took Dean's hand in his, mindful of the IV line protruding from the back of Dean's hand. John kept the one hand on Sam's shoulder and gently placed his other hand on Dean's unbroken leg, desperately needing the physical contact with both of his sons at that moment to reassure himself they were both alive. The three Winchester's stayed that way for some time, silently drawing comfort from each other's presence and touch.

Pastor Jim had remained by the door to allow the small family some privacy, but after about thirty minutes he deemed it was time for John to be reminded that Sam also needed rest. Now that he was looking for it, he saw how the boy held his arm against his ribs and the stiffness to Sam's movements. Sam was obviously in some pain. He couldn't believe he'd failed to notice, but his concern had been focused on Dean once Sam had reassured Jim that he was okay. Hours ago Jim's own exhaustion had begun to creep up on him, but he'd fought off the need for sleep with cup after cup of coffee. At this point he'd been up for over twenty-four hours, however the Winchesters needed him to sit sentinel over their brother and son, the glue that held their fragile family together, so he pushed his own exhaustion aside once again. Quietly Jim cleared his throat to get John's attention, "Why don't I stay with Dean while you take Sam back to the motel to get cleaned up. I think you both could use some sleep, too. The doctor said Dean will be unconscious for some time yet."

Sam looked up in alarm and before John could respond, he blurted out "No! I don't want to go back there. They know we live there."

John easily read the panic in his youngest boy's eyes and recalled what Jim had told him about the gang having been around the motel looking for his boys before the Pastor had arrived. The naked fear in Sam's eyes clinched it…there was no way in hell he was going to take his boy back to that crap hole. He squeezed Sam's shoulder, "It's okay, Sammy. I'm going to go and get all of our stuff and get us moved into that motel just up the street from here. Then I'll come back and get you so you can get cleaned up. That sound good to you?"

Sam nodded, relief evident in his face. His voice was small, but the worry was clear as he said, "You shouldn't go alone. They might have come back."

"Don't worry," John winked at his son, "I'll have my friends Misters Smith and Wesson with me. Besides, I doubt this gang does much in the light of day." At Sam's confused look, John said gently, "It's nearly 6:30 AM. The sun'll be up soon."

Sam blinked, trying to fathom that a little over twenty-four hours ago he was getting ready for school and Dean was fixing him breakfast. He glanced down at his brother and heard Dean's voice in his head—_I want a do-over!_ Sam felt his breath hitch. Yes. He wanted a do-over. He'd give anything to rewind those hours and change it all.

Sam looked at his father and took a calming breath as he considered John's reassurances. Finally he nodded his agreement. "Be careful, Dad. Please be careful," he said quietly. The thought that the Dementors might come after his father frightened him. He didn't think he could bear both of them hurt. In spite of it all, he needed his Dad. He needed him more than anything…except Dean.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." John gave Sam a final squeeze on the shoulder then walked out the door.

Jim followed John out, saying over his shoulder to Sam, "I'll be right back, Samuel."

Once out in the hallway with the closed door between them and the boys, the Pastor turned to the worried father. "John, I'm sorry. I don't know how I missed the fact that Sam was hurt also. Do you want me to have a doctor take a look at Sam while you're gone?"

"No," John answered thoughtfully. "It shouldn't take me long to get our things moved. I'll take Sammy to the motel and give him a once over, then decide if he needs a doctor. He's so jumpy right now, Jim, I'm afraid of how he'd react to a stranger touching him. So long as it's nothing more than a cracked rib or two, I can take care of him."

Jim wasn't thrilled with John's decision, feeling the boy should have professional treatment, but didn't argue. Instead he grasped John's arm, trying to convey what comfort he could to the distraught man, "I'll watch over them. Go on, John." Jim gave him a slight smile. "And like Sam said, be careful." His smile faded as he glanced back towards Dean's room. "You and I both know evil walks as readily in the day as it does at night."

John nodded once sharply, unable to speak around the painful lump in his throat, before taking his leave.


	16. Chapter 16

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

_**For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**_

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

_A/N: In the previous chapter I had John react in disbelief to Dean being raped, that it didn't happen to men. As a reader pointed out, John was in the Marines and it's implied that he was RECON. He would know such things could occur. I have modified that small paragraph to reflect his disbelief that it happened to his son rather than that it could happen to a man. Pardon the belated correction, but I don't like to leave grievous errors in place if alerted to them._

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**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 16**

_I can see the pain living inside you  
__I can see the change standing beside you  
__Lean on me this time._

_--Lean, Dark New Day_

**Then:  
**_March 19__th__, Deidersville, Illinois_

John made the trip to the Starliner as quickly as possible, guilt and fear plaguing him, spurring him on to get back to his sons as fast as he could. After parking the Impala, he scanned for the teenagers who might be this gang that had nearly killed his son. He wished they were here. He wished he could wreak a little—no, a lot—of Winchester revenge on the bastards.

Seeing no one milling in the parking lot or its shadows, he climbed from the car, shoved the key in the motel room's door, and stepped inside. The room was no warmer than the outside though the heater tried valiantly to warm the room as the cold air drifted in through the broken window. Sparkles and slivers of glass glinted in the carpet near the window. Splotches of dried blood on the worn carpet led from the door to the couch. The amount of Dean's blood covering the filthy sofa in the run down motel room nearly brought John to his knees, and bile filled the back of his throat. He'd seen blood and guts and gore while in the Marines and plenty of the same from the targets of his hunts, but this was his _son's_ blood.

He stood by the couch and stared at the blood-darkened fabric. A trashcan sat near the couch, filled with gauze and bandages. What had Sam been thinking, not getting his brother to a hospital? Had he discouraged medical treatment by professionals so severely that Sam would try to take care of his brother when Dean had injuries like he did? John winced inwardly, knowing Sam had likely been afraid of CPS since John wasn't supposed to be back until Sunday. Surely he knew that John, once getting his messages, would go to hell and back to get home as fast as he could, didn't he? Recalling the bitter words Sam had shouted at him only a handful of hours earlier, he realized that Sam hadn't believed that. Sam believed John thought the hunt was more important that his boys' welfare. John forced his eyes away from the blood-soaked couch. He needed to focus on gathering their belongings and getting back to the hospital.

He saw that most of the critical items were already packed up. It was obvious Dean was planning to bolt with Sam. He just didn't get out fast enough. John went into the boys' room and found their duffels. He started to zip Sam's closed when he saw a blood soaked t-shirt in the bag. He opened the duffel wider and found Sam's bloodied and torn shirt and jeans. He found himself hoping the blood only belonged to Dean and none to Sam. How could he have ignored his sons' safety so completely? How could he have been so blind to their danger? Why hadn't he listened to their concerns? Sam was right to be angry with him…John would never forgive himself for this massive screw up. All he could do now was try to pick up the pieces. He tossed the clothes into the trash. Sam didn't need that reminder.

With everything all but packed, it didn't take John more than fifteen minutes to finish cleaning out the cupboards. After a final once-over, he loaded everything into the Impala and left the key on the kitchen table. He didn't want to answer any of the motel's questions. He had other, more important things to worry about. He pulled into the motel near the hospital and paid for a week. He knew that wouldn't be long enough, but he still didn't have much in the way of money. He'd worry about that later. He didn't know what he was going to do when the hospital broached that subject with him. Dean's care was surely going to run in the thousands. He knew Mac would offer up the money without hesitation, and reluctantly, John knew he'd have to accept. He'd just have to find a way to pay the man back. After he checked over the room, he unloaded their things.

When John returned to the hospital room, the tableau had changed very little. A chair for Sammy had been added, along with one for the Pastor, but otherwise Sam was still at his brother's side, holding Dean's hand carefully, while the Pastor kept a quiet vigil over the boys. Sam's head was resting on the bedrail, cushioned by his arm, his face turned toward his brother, eyes closed in uneasy sleep.

The Pastor rose and stepped over to John. "Sam drifted off just a little bit ago," Jim said quietly. "Try to be patient with him, John. He's been through a lot."

"I know that, Jim!" John snapped, regretting it immediately. He rubbed tiredly at his bearded face then apologetically met the Pastor's eyes. "I'm sorry. I know Sam's traumatized. I'll try to get him to talk to me, but we all know that's usually Dean's specialty. To be honest, Jim, I'm not sure I know how to help my boys with this."

Jim gripped John's arm in compassion. It was difficult to see the confident hunter reduced to an insecure father. "You don't have to do it alone," he told John emphatically. "Don't be too proud to let your friends help you and the boys."

John sagged in relief, nodding his gratitude. He knew this situation was well beyond his meager parenting skills. If only there was some big, bad monster to kill, he'd be fine. The physical injuries the boys had suffered would heal given time and he could deal with those, but it was the emotional trauma that truly frightened John. He had failed Dean miserably when Mary had died, unable to help the four year old child climb out of the several months' long silence he'd retreated into from the blow of losing his mother. It had taken Mac, Caleb and little Sammy to do that. John wasn't sure what to expect from this, but he knew Dean tended to curl into himself when he was hurt, physically or emotionally, shunning help from others. John could only hope that Dean wouldn't bury himself so deeply that they couldn't reach him. Sam, on the other hand, lashed out when he was hurt, and John often times found it easier to deal with a combative son rather than a withdrawn one. He, like Sam, was a fighter, which John was beginning to suspect was going to be a problem as Sam got older and full-on hit puberty. How ever this current situation played out, John was grateful to know his 'family' would be there for them.

The Pastor squeezed John's arm again, then nodded toward the boys. "You'd best take Sam to get cleaned up. I'll watch over Dean and call you if there's any change, any hint that he's coming around."

"Is he stable yet?" John asked quietly, afraid of what the answer might be.

"No," Jim said, wishing he could say otherwise, "But there has been slow and steady improvement, and the doctor said if the trend continues, he may be stabilized as early as tomorrow morning. If he does, and with a little luck, the doctor thinks there's a chance Dean might wake up as soon as tomorrow or the next day." Jim paused and then added, "Those two police officers stopped by. They want you to bring Sam to the police station as soon as you can, so they can finish talking with him."

John nodded once more at the Pastor, acknowledging the information then moved quietly to his sons. Gently he brushed a hand over Sam's hair and only his quick hunter's reflexes kept the boy from falling to the floor as he startled awake. "Easy, Sammy! It's just me."

The sudden jerking of his body made Sam gasp at the sharp pain stabbing through his side and he pressed his arm against his ribcage protectively. It took him a disorienting moment to identify his father's touch and voice, but as soon as recognition dawned, he visibly relaxed and quit struggling against his father's hands. He forced himself to lower his arm from his side, hating that his father had seen that weakness in him.

"Sammy? You okay, Son?"

Nodding slowly, Sam met his father's worried eyes. "Yeah. I just…I didn't hear you come back."

"Stealth is the trademark of a good hunter." John quipped, giving his son a slight smile as he released his hold on Sam. "What say we go get you cleaned up and catch a few hours sleep? Jim's going to stay here with Dean and will call us if there's any change. We're not going to be more than a few minutes away, okay? It's just down the street."

Exhaustion had taken a strong hold on Sam and he couldn't muster the energy to argue, even though he really didn't want to leave his brother. Reluctantly, he nodded and rose slowly to his feet, giving Dean's hand one more quick squeeze before relinquishing his hold. He looked over at Jim and said softly, "He likes to be read to when he's sick."

Jim gave him a smile. "I remember. I'll see if I can find one of his adventure novels in the gift shop when it opens."

Sam gave his brother one final look before joining his father.

Father and son walked quietly from the hospital and made the short trip to the motel in silence.

Sam surveyed the new motel room with little curiosity. He was pleased that the older motel had a two bedroom suite, and was what his father had rented, so he and Dean would have one bedroom and their father the other. The small kitchenette was in surprisingly good shape, which would have pleased Dean, had he been with them. The reminder of his brother's absence brought a sudden sting of fresh tears to Sam's eyes, stirring him to cross quickly to the bedrooms, away from his father lest the man see his tears. He spotted his and Dean's bags in the room to the left, so he entered it to retrieve fresh clothes from his duffle then went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him, eager to shower again, though he doubted it would erase the feel of_ them_ on his skin. Savoring the solitude for however long it lasted, Sam was glad for the respite from his father. The three Winchesters generally lived in tight quarters, making privacy a rarity, even in the bathroom.

John sighed at Sam's quick escape from him. He'd check on the boy as soon as the water turned off, on the pretense of needing something out of the bathroom. That trick worked well on Dean when he suspected his oldest son was injured and it allowed him to force the issue of a physical exam once he spotted any bruises, cuts or other signs of injury. Since it seemed Sam had suddenly picked up Dean's bad habit of not admitting to being hurt, John figured the tactic should work on the younger boy as well. While he waited for Sam to finish his shower, John pulled out the oversized first aid kit, double checking the medical supplies, setting the items he was sure he'd need for Sam on the kitchen table.

The shower shut off. _Show time,_ John thought as he gave Sam a ten count to let the boy towel off some, then opened the door to the bathroom with only a perfunctory knock. "Hey, Sammy, I just need to grab…" John's voice trailed off as his eyes settled on his son, inhaling sharply at the sight of the wicked bruises and cuts covering Sam's torso, arms and legs. He noted the bloodied makeshift bandages in the trash can and the blood on Sam's discarded under clothes that were on the floor.

Sam jumped in fear as his father barreled into the bathroom, nearly falling back into the tub. The look on his father's face had him stumbling away from the man, uncertain of his intentions.

Watching Sam shrink away from him, John realized with alarm that his son was afraid of him. Deliberately slowing his movements, he spoke gently as moved closer to the boy, "Sammy? Take it easy, Son. I just want to get a look at you."

Sam shook his head. Eyes wide, he backed up against the wall as he pulled the towel around his waist.

"Sammy," John soothed, "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just wanna help. Okay?"

Again, Sam shook his head. "No. I'm fine. Leave me alone."

"No, you're not. You're beat to hell." John stopped his advance on the boy when he saw the growing panic in Sam's eyes. He didn't understand. Sam had no reason to fear him. Sure, he yelled at the boys now and then, but he'd never thought he'd given them reason to truly fear him, not the way his own father had struck fear in him. Surely the boys had to know he'd never intentionally hurt them. Like a blow to his gut, it dawned on him…unintentionally he'd just hurt both of his boys beyond belief, perhaps even beyond forgiveness. He had dismissed their concerns and, more importantly, hadn't been there for them. Well, he didn't need Sam's forgiveness right now, he just needed to get the boy to let him exam and treat him. Firmly, yet still softly, he said, "Sammy, listen to me. You have a choice here…either you let me check you over or I can take you back to the hospital and let a doctor do it. You pick."

Trying to inhale deeply in an obvious effort to calm himself, Sam winced at the sharp pain in his side and decided that wasn't such a good idea. He studied his father for a moment, debating his chances of getting around him. This final sudden surge of adrenaline from his father's abrupt entry into the bathroom was quickly taxing Sam's last reserves of energy. He just wanted to collapse into bed, not be poked and prodded by his father, certainly not be touched by anyone else. But Sam could tell by the determination on his father's rugged face there was no way to talk his way out of it. With a tired sigh, Sam said simply, "You."

"Okay," relief tinged John's voice. "Why don't you put your shorts on then come sit at the table?"

Reluctantly, Sam complied with his father's request, wishing he could don his sweat pants and shirt, too, as the chilly air swept over him when he stepped out of the warm, steamy bathroom. He shivered slightly as he sat gingerly on the hard chair, waiting for his father to look him over. Sam couldn't stop flinching as his father's hands ghosted over his torso, pausing to carefully probe the harsh bruises over his ribs. Sam tensed as the touch moved around to his back, examining those bruises, checking along his spine. Sam fought the urge to pull away, reminding himself over and over that this was Dad…not them…touching him. _It's just Dad…it's just Dad…it's just Dad… _was the mantra that he repeated in his mind.

"Easy, Sammy," John said softly, feeling Sam shudder under his touch. The bruises on Sam's back disappeared beneath the boy's shorts and John knew with gut wrenching certainty what had been done to the twelve year old. It was bad enough that his seventeen year old had been sexually assaulted amongst other tortures, but knowing that his youngest had suffered the same was nearly unbearable to the single father. Gently, he pulled Sam to his feet, so he could assess the injuries to the boy's rear, feeling bile rise in his throat at the sight of the bruising and the evidence of the bleeding that had occurred. Trying to distract his son from the intimate examination, John told him, "I don't think the ribs are broken, but they might be cracked, so I'm going to wrap them. That should help you breathe a little better, too. I'd feel better if we got them X-rayed."

"No, Dad. Please." Sam pulled away from his father, not caring that he was begging. "I…I don't want…"

"You don't want what?" John asked quietly. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder to ease him back onto the chair.

Sam shook his head, trembling uncontrollably now. He couldn't look at his father, too afraid of the disappointment he'd see in the man's eyes. Sam knew he was continually falling short of his father's expectations and this whole mess was just adding to that disappointment. It was his weakness that had allowed_ them_ to use him like that. If only he'd been stronger, tougher, smarter, then he would have gotten himself and his brother out of there before…before…

John stepped back in front of Sam and knelt down before the boy to bring them to eye level. Rusty parental instincts kicked in to tell him that he had to get Sam to admit what had been done to him in order for Sam to start healing emotionally. He placed a callused finger under Sam's chin to raise the boy's face, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You don't want what? To be touched? Because of how they touched you?"

Guilt and shame clouded Sam's eyes and he tried to pull away from his father's grip, trying in vain to hold back the tears.

"No, Sammy! Look at me." John nearly broke at seeing the anguish in Sam's face and he gently wiped away his son's tears with his thumb. He felt the sting of tears in his own eyes in response to his son's obvious pain and his voice roughened from the effort to control his emotions. "Tell me what happened. What did they do?"

Sam balked at the order. He didn't want to talk about it. Not with his father. Sam shook his head against his father's hand, "No." he whispered.

"I need you to tell me what happened to you and what happened to Dean. Now, Sammy." John spoke sternly, hating himself as he did so, but knowing Sam needed to be snapped out of the shock he was in. The commanding voice he'd drilled into his boys to respond to seemed to work.

Sam drew a shaking breath, trying to choke back the tears, as he stared into his father's brown eyes. He couldn't ignore that tone. Slowly, hesitantly he began speaking in a whisper so soft that John had to strain to hear Sam's words. Sam's gaze slid away from his father's, not wanting to see the disapproval he was certain he'd find there. Once he started talking, though, his voice reached a more normal level and Sam found himself telling his father about the entire night, from his hopeless search for his brother, to finding Dean only to watch his older brother be tortured and raped, to seeing poor Isabelle's dead body, how he himself had been beaten and raped, how he escaped and called the police, and finally how he'd gotten Dean and himself out and back to the motel. The more he spoke, the more Sam's voice became a dull monotone, as though relating events that had happened to someone else, distancing himself from the terrible events. He didn't notice the hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

After Sam began the tale and it appeared he would not stop until he finished the entire story, John gently cleaned and bandaged the cuts on Sam, then carefully wrapped his ribs while he spoke. John grimaced at the gash on Sam's hand that should have had stitches.

Sam's eyes remained fixed on the wall and he seemed unaware of John's ministrations. Even when John helped him into his sweat pants and sweatshirt, the boy seemed oblivious. John sat down in the chair next to Sam as the twelve year old finished relating the night's events. Although his voice sounded flat, Sam's anxiety was clear in the way he slowly rocked back and forth in the chair, even though John knew that had to hurt the boys injured behind. His son appeared to be in shock.

John wanted nothing more than to take his boy into his arms and soothe away his hurts. But, since Mary had died, he wasn't much of a touchy-feely father, and was afraid he'd screw that up too right now, so he just sat quietly beside Sam as the boy's voice finally drifted off. He reached out to squeeze the back of Sam's neck, hoping his son would look at him, but Sam only flinched and continued to stare at the wall. "I'm so sorry, Sammy." John could barely speak around the lump in his throat.

"You are?" Sam finally looked up at his father, almost in puzzlement.

"God, Sammy, of course I am! I never wanted you boys to get hurt." John rubbed a hand over his face and down his bearded chin, searching for the words, as he shifted his other hand from Sam's neck to his shoulder. "I…I just didn't realize it was that bad. I didn't listen and you boys paid a horrible price. I am truly sorry, Son."

Slowly Sam nodded his acceptance of his father's words. Before he succumbed to exhaustion, Sam had to make certain of one more thing. "Dad, please don't tell Dean what they did to me. Please. It'll kill him. He can't know. He's going to feel guilty enough about Isabelle."

Reluctantly, John had to agree. "Tell you what, I'll leave it up to you whether or not you tell him. Okay?"

Sam nodded gratefully. His gratitude dissipated with John's next words.

"All right. Now, I want you to get some sleep, then I'm gonna have a doctor take a look at you." John continued, cutting off the protest he saw building in Sam, "This is non-negotiable, kiddo. I need to make sure those ribs aren't broken, and, well…" John hesitated then rushed on, "Look, I don't know how much you've covered in health class yet about sex, but I need to make sure you're healthy and there's no permanent damage."

Sam stared at his father, not comprehending what he was saying at first. As realization of what John was insinuating dawned on him, all Sam could manage was a very quiet, "Oh."

"Yeah." John eyed Sam critically. "I should take you back over to the hospital now, but," John raised his hand to stop Sam's argument, "At this point I don't think it will hurt for you to get some sleep first. You'll handle it better once you've gotten some rest." John pushed the glass of water he'd filled while Sam was talking over to the boy and handed him children's Tylenol. "Take this. It'll help some with the pain, until we get you checked over properly. I'm sure the doctor will prescribe something stronger for you." He wasn't above medicating his own children when necessary, but the doctor would most likely do blood tests on Sam and he didn't want any heavy duty pain killers showing up. That would raise a red flag for sure. As Sam placed the empty glass back on the table, John added gently, "Listen, Sammy, if you want, I'll stay with you the whole time the doctor's checking you over. Will that help?"

Sam hated himself for the weakness, but nodded anyway, accepting his father's offer. The little boy in him needed his dad, whether he liked it or not, especially if he couldn't have his big brother with him.

John smiled tenderly at Sam, glad the boy took him up on his offer. It had been a long time since either of his boys had turned to him for comfort. And he knew exactly where the blame for that lay. He stood and reached out to steady Sam as the boy got to his feet. He escorted Sam to his bed, pulling the covers over his son once he was settled, tucking him in for the first time in many years, earning a small smile from Sam.

"Thanks, Dad." Sam said quietly, his eyes already drifting closed.

John switched off the light on his way out of the room, turning at the doorway to gaze back at his youngest child. Sam always looked so much younger when he slept, inspiring a surge of protectiveness in his father.

John was consumed with guilt and anger at what his sons had suffered. How many times had his peers told him not to leave the boys alone? That something terrible could happen to them while he was gone? How many times had they beseeched John to leave his sons with one of them when he had a hunt that lasted more than a day or so? He had been too stubborn to listen, too bull-headed to believe that something could get to his boys. Dean was seventeen, almost a man. He'd had every confidence Dean would be able to look out for Sammy and himself. He hadn't realized just how bad a place he'd left them. John had to admit that it had just been dumb luck that the boys hadn't been hurt badly before now. He shuddered to think what Mary would say about his poor parenting. The boys were all he had left of his wife and they were his world. How could he have been so blind?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

John managed a few hours of sleep before his turbulent thoughts tormented him awake. He rose and peeked in on Sam to make sure he was still sleeping. John was grateful, though somewhat surprised that Sam had not been awakened by any nightmares. Dean usually handled those, and John had no idea how he was going to help Sam with that while Dean was out of commission. Watching Sam shift stiffly in his sleep, he thought Sam could probably use some more Tylenol for the pain, but decided to let Sam sleep as long as he could. Silently, he padded to the kitchenette to start a fresh pot of coffee. Once it was brewing, John stepped out into the too bright sunshine to keep from waking Sam while he called the hospital to check on Dean. Seeing a flash of movement, his eyes scanned his surroundings more intently. He eyed the shadows more closely but he saw nothing else and he was so tired, he wondered if he'd seen it at all.

John called ICU and asked the staff to have Jim call him. His cell phone rang within just a minute. He could hear the exhaustion in his good friend's voice and felt a pang of guilt. Jim surely hadn't had any sleep for probably going on thirty hours, though he'd likely dozed in the chair at Dean's bedside.

"John," Jim said, "there hasn't been any real change. Dean's holding his own, which the doctors say is a good sign. He's still unconscious, still on a ventilator, and still critical and unstable condition. How's Sam?"

"Beat to hell and back," John said.

"John, I'm so—"

"Sammy was keeping his injuries hidden, Jim. It's not your fault. He's apparently picked up Dean's bad habits. I had no idea he was so beat up either. I'd have never left the hospital with him in that condition if I'd even suspected. Once here, I knew he'd do better after a little sleep. His ribs are definitely bruised, but I'm hoping they aren't cracked. I'm going to want them x-rayed. Jim," John sighed, trying to keep his emotions under tight control. His voice roughened as he said, "Sam was raped, too. I got the whole story from him before I put him to bed.

"I went through training in the Marines," John said. "We learned about what we might expect if we were ever captured behind enemy lines. Torture, rape, all of it. I never thought…not here in the States…not just some kids…sometimes I guess I forget that people don't need to be possessed by a demon to be able to do things like that."

"I assume you're going to want him checked over for that, as well?" Jim asked gently.

"Yeah. Yeah, if you could ask Dean's doctor, or the nurses, someone, to get it set up."

"How soon will you be here?"

John glanced at his watch. It was going on noon at this point. "Jim, you have to be exhausted. I'll get Sam up and get over there so you can get some rest yourself."

"I've gotten a bit of sleep here and there. You take what time you need for now. I'll be fine for a bit yet."

"Thank you, Jim," John said, feeling some measure of relief that he'd be able to sit with Sam through the examination and know that Dean was still being watched over, and that he wasn't alone.

"That's what family's for, John. I'll get the examination request put in with the hospital."

"Okay. Talk to you soon," John said and ended the call. John quietly re-entered the motel room and nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to find Sam standing in front of him.

"Sam! Damn it, kid, I thought you were sleeping."

Sam had the grace to look a bit guilty for startling his father. "I heard the door. I...I thought you'd left."

"No, Sammy, I'm not going to leave you alone." John sighed, reaching out to steer Sam to the table, but the boy pulled away from him. John struggled to keep his expression neutral. "C'mon, sit down. I'll get you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry." Sam stated but obeyed his father's order and settled himself stiffly at the table, careful not to jar his throbbing body. "Could I just have some juice?"

"Sure." John poured the motel supplied orange juice in a glass and set it before Sam. He could see the tell tale signs of pain in his son's face and posture, despite Sam's effort to hide it. "Sammy, I don't want to give you any more Tylenol on an empty stomach. Think you could eat some toast, at least?"

Sam sipped the juice then shook his head. "Really, Dad, I'm not hungry. Tylenol never upsets my stomach. Couldn't I have some with the juice?"

Against his better judgment, John caved and handed Sam the medicine. After it had been swallowed, John told him, "When you're done with your juice, I want you to get dressed. We need to get you looked over by a doctor."

Sam chewed on his lip, knowing there was no way around his father when he used the voice of command. Resigned to his fate, he downed the juice then walked to the bedroom to dress. Sam moved slowly, taking off his sweats. There was still a small bit of spotting on Sam's under shorts, so he changed them again and carefully pulled on clean jeans and a fresh shirt, wincing from the pain the actions caused. He was more sore and stiff than he'd been when he had gone to sleep, but that wasn't surprising, he supposed. However, he was pleased that breathing wasn't so difficult since his Dad had wrapped his ribs. While he leaned over, struggling with his shoes, he heard his father's cell phone ring. The one sided conversation he overheard made him nervous.

"Winchester." John barked into his phone, not recognizing the number on the caller ID. Mentally John groaned when the caller identified himself as one of the officers they'd met at the hospital. "Yeah, I remember. …I'd rather not bring him down there. Could you just talk to him at the hospital? …Yeah, we'll be over there soon. But he needs to get checked over by a doctor first." John's voice became softer, remorseful, "…Yeah, he was. …No, he changed at the motel before Dean was taken to the hospital. I pitched the clothes when I found them. Why? …Oh. …Uh, we were at the Starliner Motel, room 171. …Yeah, he showered here, after we left the hospital and I think he showered at the Starliner, too." Anger crept back into his voice. "…Look, I didn't know Sam had been attacked until we got to the motel this morning or I would have told you last night. …Yeah, okay." He snapped the phone closed in annoyance and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Dad?" The one word held a multitude of questions.

Sighing heavily, John turned to face his son who had emerged from the bedroom. "That was the cops from last night. They want to talk to you some more so they're going to meet us at the hospital." The fear reflected in Sam's eyes had him adding quickly, "Don't worry, I'll stay with you, Sammy. Okay?"

Sam nodded, swallowing hard. It was one thing to tell his father the details from last night, but strangers? He wasn't sure he could bear the shame. Maybe he could leave out certain parts…

John's voice cut through Sam's thoughts, "You ready?"

After a brief hesitation, Sam bobbed his head once, accepting the inevitable. He preceded his father out the door, to the Impala, and gingerly maneuvered himself into the passenger seat.

John's heart ached as he watched his son's stiff movements, driving home to him how hurt the boy was. He was kicking himself for not insisting that Sam be examined last night, as soon as he suspected the boy was injured. What the hell kind of parent was he?

John paused as he started to open his door, a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck telling him something was wrong. He walked slowly around the Impala, letting his gaze flick to his surroundings periodically. The Impala needed a good bath, he thought absently, noting she was coated in salt and road grime from the long drive to Jonas' place and back. So why was there a small but distinct clean smudge on the front of the hood? John hesitated, glanced around again, then went to his knees and looked under the Impala. Fluid, as if the Impala had been wounded, pinked the slush under the car near the firewall. John swore softly. He reached inside the car and pulled the hood release, then popped the hood open. His gaze went to the master cylinder. Brake fluid coated one side of it. After flicking the bar off the lid, he lifted the cap and peered in. The master cylinder was all but dry inside, shiny fluid clinging to its side. John went to the trunk, pulled out a bottle of brake fluid and refilled the master cylinder. He checked carefully under the car to look for other dripping fluid, and checked over the engine to see if anything else had been tampered with but found nothing. He'd have to drive cautiously to the hospital. There might well be air in the lines. He shut the hood with a solid thunk and climbed into the driver's seat. Sam gave him a questioning look.

"Just a little low on brake fluid," John said gruffly. He pumped the brakes a few times to get the lines re-pressurized. He had brakes, but even so, he'd be ready to down shift if needed. Cautiously, he pulled out of the parking place. The brakes were a little soft, but worked.

The short trip to the hospital was made in silence, both Winchesters lost in their own recriminating thoughts.

Walking into the hospital, John slowed his stride as they made their way to Dean's room when he noticed Sam grimace in pain from trying to keep up with him. Stifling a sigh, he wished Sam would speak up for himself.

Sam was surprised they were going straight to Dean's room, but didn't question his father. The longer he could delay facing the doctor and the cops, the better in his opinion. The Tylenol had eased some of the sharper pain and Sam wished he could convince his father he'd be fine without a checkup.

When they entered Dean's hospital room they found Dean's doctor, a young, brawny black man, going over his medical chart while Pastor Jim looked on tiredly. Both looked over at their entry, Dr. Morton's gaze instantly locking with the anxious father's eyes.

"He's holding his own and I expect to be able to declare him stable by this evening, barring any incidents." The doctor reassured John swiftly. "His autonomic nervous system is getting stronger, which is a very good sign. We may well be able to take him off the ventilator later today if he continues to improve."

"Thank you, doctor," John said, relief coloring his voice.

"Well, he still has a long ways to go," Dr. Morton cautioned, "but he's quite a fighter." He hung Dean's chart back on the foot of the bed then turned back to the other two Winchesters once more. "So, Sam, I hear you had a run in with the Dementors, too."

Feeling ambushed, Sam jerked back, but was halted by his father's strong arm going around his slim shoulders.

"Easy, Sammy," John whispered.

Sam looked toward his father, then back at the doctor before he nodded once.

Dr. Morton softened his tone, sensing the apprehension in the young man before him, "Will you let me examine you? I know that the last thing you probably want is someone you don't know checking you over, huh?"

Sam swallowed and nodded. He nudged himself a little closer to his father, wishing he didn't have to be examained.

"Your dad trusts me to look after your brother. That earn me any points in the trust department?"

Sam considered but then shrugged.

As if aware of the panic threatening to consume Sam, John's arm tightened slightly around him, trying to convey what reassurance he could. "It's okay, son. I'll be right there with you."

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" Sam mumbled.

"No, not really," John confirmed.

"There's an empty exam room just down the hall from ICU that we can use." Dr. Morton told them. "We'll do this as quickly as we can, okay, Sam?"

With a nod to Pastor Jim, silently acknowledging that the older man would stay with Dean, John steered Sam out of Dean's room. They followed the doctor into the examination room. Under his arm, John could feel Sam trembling again. He wished desperately for some way to ease his son's fear and pain, for some comfort he could offer. When his beloved wife had died so tragically, John didn't believe he could ever feel any worse anguish, but watching both his sons suffering for his mistake was coming close. He forced down the tears that threatened once more, knowing he had to be strong for Sam right now.

"Sam, would you put this on, please?" Dr. Morton handed a hospital gown to Sam and motioned to a screen that would afford some privacy for the boy while he changed garments. Sam took a calming breath, accepted the gown and moved behind the screen. While Sam was changing, Dr. Morton spoke to John, "Pastor Murphy said that you think Sam might have some cracked ribs?" Receiving the father's nod of confirmation, the doctor continued, "I'll have a portable X-ray brought in here, so Sam won't have to travel all over the hospital. And you think he was sodomized?" Again, John nodded. "But not tortured like your other son?"

"No, he's got a lot of bruises and cuts, but not the burns, like Dean."

Dr. Morton bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "I'm guessing he's showered since the attack? Used the bathroom, too?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't know any better. Don't worry about it," Dr. Morton stated. "I'll run a rape kit anyway, but I doubt we'll get much out of it."

Sam emerged tentatively from behind the screen, clearly uncomfortable in the thin gown. At the doctor's prompting he went to the exam table and carefully climbed up on it. John moved to stand close to Sam, determined to soothe his son in any way he could, though he felt completely out of his element. Almost embarrassed by the thought, he wished desperately that Dean was here to help. Dean always seemed to know just what Sam needed.

As the doctor carefully examined him, Sam focused his gaze on his father, though not meeting the man's eyes. He simply drew strength from the rare presence of his dad, studying the man's face as he winced under the doctor's touch around his ribs. It was odd to have his father with him at a time like this; it was usually his brother who took care of him when he was hurt. Sam knew his father cared, but John just didn't seem to be able to show it. At times, his dad seemed more than a little oblivious when he or his brother needed words of encouragement, or reassurances or even if it was girlie, to hear his dad say he loved them.

If it had been Dean with him when the doctor began the sexual examination, he would have clenched Dean's hand and he and his brother's eyes would be locked with each other. With his father, Sam couldn't show such weakness, so instead he gripped the edge of the table tightly, using every bit of control he had to neither break into tears nor bolt from the room and the Doctors intimate probing. His father was nothing if not the king of "suck it up and deal with it." So that's what he'd somehow do. He'd suck it up. But only if the doctor hurried. He wanted the doctor's hands off him, he wanted his jeans on, he wanted to shower again, he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

Sam was shocked when he felt his father's hand wrap around his own, squeezing it gently as the doctor carried out the intimate exam. Sam took it as a sign of permission and clung desperately to his dad, becoming too distraught from the doctor's touch to worry about appearing weak at the moment.

Dr. Morton was true to his word, finishing the exam as quickly as possible. After drawing several vials of blood for tests, he patted Sam's arm and said, "Ok Sam, we're done. If you want, you can go ahead and put your pants back on, but don't put your shirt on yet. I want to get a couple pictures of those ribs, then we need to re-wrap them, ok?" The boy nodded as he moved to comply.

Seeing Sam wince as he maneuvered to the edge of the exam table, John placed a hand under the boy's arm helping him down. While Sam slipped behind the screen to dress, John met the doctor's brown eyes. "Well?" he prompted.

The doctor finished placing the swabs from Sam's exam in tubes to be sent to the lab along with the blood, before tuning back to John. He steadily met the concerned gaze and spoke quietly, "There's no permanent damage, but there's a lot of bruising and some swelling. He'll be sore, especially when sitting or having bowel movements, for a few more days. The blood I took is for a baseline. Most STDs take a good few weeks to manifest themselves. We'll need to recheck him in a month, then three months, and again in six months. The AIDs test always takes a few days longer than the other tests. Same with Dean, but we already covered that didn't we." He paused as a young woman entered with the x-ray machine, positioning it by the exam table. "And now we'll see about those ribs of his. He's pretty battered, and depending on what the x-rays show, I'll prescribe some pain meds for him along with an anti-inflammatory, to help bring down the swelling in some of those bruises. I'm also going to give him a ten-day antibiotic regimen. It should take care of some simpler STDs if he contracted any, and it'll help make sure his cuts heal properly."

Once more, Sam emerged from behind the screen, feeling better being clad in his jeans. He walked over to the waiting x-ray, noticing the way his father and doctor stopped talking at his approach. Did they think he couldn't hear them before? Sam exercised great restraint in not rolling his eyes at them. At a gesture from Dr. Morton, Sam climbed back up on the exam table stiffly. The more he moved around, the more his ribs hurt. He'd be glad to get them wrapped again.

After giving the technician orders for a full chest series along with a spinal series since the doctor didn't like the look of some of the bruises along the boy's spine, Dr. Morton ushered John out of the room. Even though Sam knew his father couldn't stay while the x-rays were taken, he felt rather abandoned as the man walked out the door.

Sensing his son's distress, John paused at the doorway and turned back to him to offer reassurance. "It's okay, Sammy. I'll be right outside. You just holler if you need me."

Sam nodded sharply, ashamed that his father was seeing him so weak and needy, but unable to stop the roller coaster of emotions.

Once the x-rays were finished, Dr. Morton wrapped Sam's ribs, telling both of the Winchesters that he would come find them in Dean's room once the film was back. He handed John a couple of prescriptions to be filled at the dispensary for Sam and let them return to their vigil at Dean's bedside. John saw Sam settled in a chair by his brother's side then slipped out to pick up the medicine for the boy, eager to get Sam some relief from the pain he was obviously experiencing.


	17. Chapter 17

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

**For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

Thanks to my beta for her wonderful help and suggestions.

_A/N: I apologize for the long delay in getting this chapter up. The threat of hurricane Gustav kept me somewhat busy and a work deadline had me pulling very long hours. Then the real fun began. The direct hit of Hurricane Ike on Houston, Texas (my home), forced me to evacuate northward. I returned home a week later to find a completely intact house (whew), with the only damage one very large tree felled as well as a handful of smaller ones, coupled with about 700 cubic feet of debris to pick up (a 45 foot long sidewalk stacked 5 feet tall with branches and such, or alternately 14 m X 2 m of debris. It was a real joy). All said and done, it's been a very loooong month._

SNSNSNSNSNSN

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 17**

_So low  
__Overwhelming, clinging to a tragedy  
__So clear  
__Hear weeping voices, tears fall in the dark  
__Feels like  
__I'm carving in from the outside  
__So lost, so gone, so wrong_

_--Rain.Sun.Gone., Mudvayne_

**Then:  
**_March 19th, Deidersville, Illinois_

When John returned to the ICU with the prescriptions, Sam sat beside his brother, a death grip on Dean's hand. He knew in his gut Sam wasn't trying to comfort Dean, but was trying to draw comfort from him. John could see his son was still badly shaken by the doctor's exam and noted the slight tremble in Sam's clutching hand.

Jim had roused briefly when they'd first gotten back to the room, but the pastor was already back to snoring softly, slumped in his chair. Guiltily, John knew Jim had probably been up well over thirty hours.

"Dude," John said softly to Sam, "I've got the medication the doctor wrote for you." He poured Sam the last of the water from the pitcher and, after looking at the three bottles, set the sedative aside, retrieving an antibiotic and pain pill from each of the other two bottles. Reluctantly, Sam let go of Dean's hand to accept the pills and water. Sam's hazel eyes peered questioningly at his father, then glanced back down at the pills. Instead of asking what they were, he simply took them and turned back to Dean wordlessly.

Stepping over to his youngest, John gently laid a hand on his son's shoulder. Sam jumped, then looked up at his father, his gaze filled with fright.

"It's gonna be okay, kiddo. Dean'll pull through this," John said, mustering as much confidence as he could. He cringed when he thought of the officers wanting to talk to Sam today. The last thing John wanted to do was subject Sam to the officers' interrogations as a follow-up to the doctor's exam, but he also knew he could only stall them so long. They needed Sam's information so they could act on it. He wanted the bastards who had done these things to his boys caught and thrown in a hole so deep they never saw light of day again. A salt and burn before they had quite moved on into the afterlife sounded even better. To hell with the hunter credo of not killing humans. Those bastards were anything but.

John wanted nothing more than to stay with his boys, but he knew he had other things he simply couldn't put off. Glancing over at Jim, the pastor was his next priority. He gave Sam's shoulder a final squeeze before going to Jim's side. After tapping Jim lightly on the shoulder, he quickly stepped back. Jim jerked awake immediately, his right hand clenched into a fist as he drew his arm back. Even though the Guardian didn't hunt much these days, the hunter's reflexes stayed with him. Seeing his awakener was John, he immediately relaxed, giving a slow yawn. He vaguely recalled waking when the Winchesters had come in earlier but wasn't sure if that had been minutes or hours ago.

"Jim, go get yourself some sleep," John encouraged.

Sleep. Collapse in a soft bed. Yes. He was beyond tired, even with the bits of dozing he'd gotten. Jim rose to his feet and stretched out the kinks in his back. "Did you manage to get any sleep?" Jim asked wearily, hoping John had come to relieve him. His mind had latched onto the idea of sleep and wouldn't let go. He wanted to sleep for hours. Even a day or two sounded inviting.

John shrugged. "A little. Enough." He jerked his head toward the door.

Jim shuffled out into the hall. His stomach rumbled, but sleep was more demanding than food at the moment. He paused, taking in John's worried countenance. Not really wanting to hear what he feared the answer would be, he still forced himself to ask. "How is Samuel? What did the doctor say?"

John looked away from Jim for a moment as he swallowed back the sudden lump in his throat. His veiled gaze came back to meet Jim's. "They abused him, like they did Dean. No permanent damage but he's showered and crapped, so any physical evidence from Sam is gone. The doctor thinks Sammy might have a cracked rib, but he's got to wait on the film to confirm it. Other than that, he's got some bad bruising, scrapes, cuts, and his hand—it's a cut up mess."

He saw Jim's stricken look and laid a hand on the good pastor's shoulder. "Jim, he didn't want an exam that would tell the doctors what happened to him and I can't really blame him for hiding it. I do want to brain the kid for not letting a doctor stitch up his hand but it's too late now and there isn't any tendon damage, thankfully. It's just cut to hell and back. I don't think Sam would have handled any examination very well. He had a tough enough time now, and that's with Dean doing a little better," he said, and added almost hopefully, "and me being with him." He gave Jim a weak smile. "Go. Get some sleep."

Jim studied his friend a moment longer. "What else is going on?" he asked, knowing there was something else worrying his friend. All of the Winchesters had suffered a terrible blow in these last few days and to think that anything else had befallen the family—no, he gave a silent prayer that wasn't the case. He glanced toward the door and reminded himself Dean was improving and Sam was…getting through it for the time being. That at least was good. He cut his gaze back to John and waited expectantly.

"Someone messed with the Impala, drained the master cylinder," John said quietly. "I'd say that gang knows Sammy and I are staying at the Kokomo Inn. I don't know how bold they might get but at this point wouldn't put anything past them. Do you know if they saw your truck?"

"I don't know," Jim said, thinking back. How could it be mere hours since he'd driven Dean here when it felt like days? "Sam had been worried they were going to attack when we tried to get Dean to the hospital, but I didn't see anyone. I have no idea if they saw us. Should I get a room at a different motel? We can use my truck to go back and forth."

John considered. "If I were them, I'd be watching the hospital and the motel. They'll know soon enough if we change motels so we might as well stay at the closest one. I got you a room next to ours." He handed Jim the key. He sighed to himself. He barely had enough money for two rooms for four nights and was going to have to come up with the rest of the cash before week's end when the bill was due. He would need to find a bar and do some hustling. He could probably sell off a few of his weapons and that might buy him a few more days. After that, he wasn't really sure what they were going to do. "I think it's time I call in reinforcements. Check your truck over, just in case they did make you." He voice quieted to a soft whisper. "I assume you're packing?"

"Of course," Jim scoffed. "It's is out in the truck. Samuel left his 9-mm in the truck, too. I'll be fine, John. I can take care of myself. You've got enough to worry about."

"You awake enough to make the drive? It's about six blocks east of here," John asked gruffly. He didn't want to leave his boys, but he would to make sure Jim was safe.

Giving John a wan smile, Jim reassured John, "I think I can manage that. I'll be back in a few hours."

"Take what time you need. I won't be able to pry Sammy away from Dean's side for a good while. Go get some sleep." He handed a brochure type map over to Jim and pointed out the motel's location. "Take a right out of the parking lot. The Kokomo will be on your left."

Jim's gaze drifted back to Dean's room, wanting to go back in and try to comfort Sam somehow, but John was here and Jim could hardly keep his eyes open anyhow. He gave a sharp nod to John. "Call me if you need me."

"I will," John assured Jim and watched his friend slowly trudge toward the exit, his shoulders bowed as if the weight of the world were on them. John felt that way himself. He stuck his head back through the doorway leading to Dean's room. "You be okay for a few minutes, Sammy? I need to make a couple calls. They can wait if you want me here."

Sam didn't look away from his battered brother's face. "I'll be okay," Sam said softly, forcing himself not to beg his father to stay. "Can-can you maybe see if I can get some more water?"

"Yeah. If you need me, you have a nurse come get me. I'll be in the waiting room outside of ICU."

"Okay, Dad," Sam said softly. He really didn't want his father to leave, but didn't want to appear any weaker than he already had in his father's eyes. He'd gripped John's hand so tightly while the doctor…looked at him. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam tried to stop his trembling as he kept his sobs locked inside him. In some ways the exam had been even worse than what the Dementors had done. It was the ultimate shame in his mind. He'd been violated unwillingly and now, not only had he been forced to undergo it again, but this time his father was there to see his shame. He'd have preferred the sneering voices to the doctor's and John's soft words trying to comfort him. Even though he was almost thirteen, he'd still wanted to crawl into his father's arms and tell his dad to make the doctor stop the too intimate and painful probing. A part of Sam hated his father for making him go through that. Another part recognized that like any other injury, the examination was necessary, but it didn't change how dirty it made him feel. More than almost anything, he wanted to take a shower really, really badly, but he didn't want to leave Dean's side. It was much more important to sit by Dean than any stupid need to shower. He wondered sadly if his father was making calls to check on a new hunting job. John wouldn't leave them, would he? No. The threat of Social Services would prevent that. At least, Sam hoped it would. Sam bit his lip. Jim was in town. His dad could put them in Jim's care and leave without being worried about social services. But he wouldn't leave…right?

Sam's profile told John that his boy was still badly shaken but John had no idea how to comfort his son. He returned to Sam's side and squatted down beside him. "You were real brave in there, Sammy. I know that was hard. You were a real trooper and I'm proud of you."

Surprise lit Sam's face as he looked over at his father. "You are?" he whispered. He'd been such a baby in there. He'd clutched his dad's hand like a life line and even though he'd tried really hard not to cry, some tears had leaked out.

John smiled at him, trying to keep his tears hidden from his son. He reached up and ran a gentle hand over Sam's hair. "I am," he said, hating that he felt his son flinch at his touch. "You sure you'll be okay alone for a little while? The phone calls can wait."

Sam managed a small smile for his father. He had to try to show some strength. "I'll be okay."

John frowned. He knew Sam wanted him at his side, but he needed to get back-up on the way. He wanted his boys protected. And, he sighed to himself, he had to deal with the cops. God, he didn't want to put his boy through that.

"Sammy," he began slowly, hating what he had to ask his traumatized boy, "the cops are probably here by now. Are you up to talking with them? The sooner you make your statement, the sooner they can go after the ones who did this. I won't make you do it today if you aren't ready. It's okay. I can make them wait another day."

Sam paled. First the doctor and now the cops? No! No, he didn't ever want to talk about it again. He wanted to sequester it in his mind so deeply that not even Caleb or Mac would be able to dig it out. But it was for Dean, he told himself. If it got the Dementors put in jail, Dean would be safe. That was more important than hiding his shame and his failure of protecting his big brother. More important than anything else. Sam gave a slow nod. "Yeah," he whispered. "I'll talk to them. Does it—Can it wait a little? I don't-I don't want to leave Dean yet. We just got here." He turned begging eyes toward his father.

"You bet, Sammy. Want me to stay with you when you talk to the cops?"

Sammy didn't trust himself to speak and could only nod. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Dean's hand.

"Then I'll be right there with you, kiddo," John said, giving his son's shoulder a squeeze. "I'm going to make those calls I need to. You just let the nurses know if you need me. I'll be back as fast as I can."

Sam nodded.

John stood up, wanting nothing more than to take his frightened boy into his arms, but feared how Sam might react to that. If he flinched at John's touch, what would he do if John tried to hug him? "I'll ask the nurse to bring in a fresh pitcher of water."

John strode out of the Dean's room, forcing himself not to pause at the doorway, knowing if he looked back he wouldn't be able to leave and he had to. Feelings of utter helplessness heightened his anger. He wanted nothing more than to take the Impala, find that warehouse, and burn it to the ground with every one of those little bastards inside.

Passing the nurse's station, John stopped short. Dammit, where was his head? Backtracking to the counter he asked the nurse, "My son would like some water and the pitcher in there is empty. Could you see he gets some more? I need to step outside for a few minutes."

"Mr. Winchester, we really can't have him in here by himself," the brunette nurse said. Her nametag said "Anne".

Taking a deep breath, John forced himself to keep his temper in check. "I'm just stepping out to make a few calls and to talk with the police."

The nurse's lips pursed. She knew how bad the teenager was, and had seen the bruises and cuts on the younger brother. She chewed on her lip and reluctantly agreed. "He can stay but we will need him to leave in about an hour. We'll need to tend to your son and we don't allow anyone in there while we do."

"I'll be back in there by then. I won't be any farther than the ICU waiting room if you or Sammy needs me."

She gave a sigh and nodded. "All right, so long as your boy stays in the room."

John gave a weak laugh. "I doubt anything will move him from his brother's side. Thank you Anne," he said, giving her as charming a smile as he could manage.

With the nurse's nod and slight smile, John left ICU and nearly bowled over the the officers waiting just outside the door.

"Mr. Winchester," Jason said, taking a hasty step back, startled. "You said we could talk with Sam?"

"My boy just went through a doctor's exam. He needs some time. The nurses are going to kick us out in an hour to do whatever it is they do. Your interview can wait until then," John said gruffly. There was no compromise in his voice.

He saw their frustrated looks and the protests on their lips. He knew they were just trying to do their jobs and he wasn't making it any easier on them. Exhaling, he waved them into the empty ICU waiting room and wearily sat down. "Look, I'll tell you what Sam told me. Then you can get your questions sorted out and ready. I want those bastards caught, but my boys have to come first. I don't want to put Sammy through any more trauma than we have to, got it?"

"What were the doctor's findings?" Gretchen asked gently. The father had already said the boy had been attacked and she could see that horrible knowledge the man's eyes. She'd seen that terrible, defeated look in too many parents' eyes through the years. Maybe with the help of John Winchester's sons, they finally could finally put some of the Dementors behind bars.

"He was beaten and raped," John said flatly. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to launch into a report of everything his youngest had told him. The police listened attentively, making notes and stopping him occasionally to ask questions.

"Sir, you said you were near," Jason paused and checked his notes, "Sullivan, Missouri when all this happened?"

John groaned to himself. He should have expected the police to pursue his absence. "Yeah, helping out a friend, Jonas McWalter with a land survey."

"Strange time of year for that," Jason commented.

"He's buying a hunting cabin," John snapped. "He wanted to see it in winter, get a lay of the land and see the sort of game in the area."

Gretchen spoke up, trying to divert the father from becoming defensive. They needed his cooperation. "When did you leave town?"

John knew it was best not to lie. Hard telling if the Starliner staff saw him leave, and with his luck, someone had. "Monday morning. We went up to the cabin Tuesday and stayed a few nights there. Thursday we had the snow storm and couldn't get back down until Friday. With the roads screwed up, I was planning on coming back Saturday morning but when I got Sammy's message that Dean was in trouble, I got on the road anyhow. Pulled in here about three A.M."

"Are your business trips often a week long?" Jason asked.

John's eyes narrowed. "It was supposed to be a four maybe five day trip. You want to say something, then spit it out."

"Mr. Winchester, we're just trying to get the full story. Nobody's saying anything." Gretchen interceded, wanting to kick Jason. Jason's opinion had shifted from compassion to blame when they'd learned from the Starliner manager that Winchester's Impala wasn't around all that much. Right now it was more important to get the boy's testimony than to worry if the father was being derelict. He was here now and calling in CPS wasn't going to help anything.

John's voice turned brittle. "Dean's seventeen and Jim Murphy was in town to keep an eye on them. I figured Dean could manage a few days of looking after his little brother." John ground his teeth. Great. He figured social services wasn't going to be far behind and they'd probably end up charging him with beating his kids or something.

"So you had no idea what was going on," Jason said.

John glared at the man. "I knew they'd been having a little trouble in school, a couple fights, but I figured it was the normal kid stuff. I knew Dean had pissed off a couple kids at school. Dean didn't tell me it was a gang. Hell, I didn't—" John choked up momentarily. Sammy's words echoed accusingly in his mind. _…They threatened Dean all last week. They're going to hurt him. Dean's in danger… _They're just kids, he'd told his boys. Nothing they couldn't handle. Dean was a damned good fighter. _Our schools are rough; it's not safe for Sammy._ Dean had said that. Both his boys had tried to tell him and he just hadn't listened; he'd been too obsessed with trying to get enough money to get them out of the god-awful town. "I didn't understand," John finally said.

Gretchen and Jason looked at each other. Gretchen asked gently, "You've never lived in that sort of neighborhood, have you?"

Staring at her for a minute, he finally raked a hand down his face. He wondered absently when he'd shaved last. He gave a slight shake of his head. "We've lived in some pretty crappy areas, but no place that had anything more than your run-of-the-mill bullies." John felt his guilt swell in him. Why didn't he find a decent job and settle his boys down in some halfway decent blue-collar neighborhood instead of running from one end of the country to the other, hunting evil? _Because I know what's out there. Because that creature that killed my Mary did something to my baby boy and that evil sonuvabitch is going to come back for him. Because I need to protect my boys and the only way to do that is to find out what it was that killed Mary and make sure it doesn't get Sammy, too._ "I didn't know there were gangs here."

His gaze slid between the officers. He was ready to end this conversation. "I've told you everything Sam told me. Do you still have to talk with him?" John said, knowing their answer before they gave it, but feeling the need to ask it anyhow.

"We'll try to make it as easy on him as we can," Gretchen assured the father. She wondered briefly what had happened to bring the family so down on their luck that they'd ended up where they had. "We'd like to interview him in private if you'll permit it."

"No way in hell," John said firmly. "He's scared enough and I promised him I'd stay with him."

Jason looked over at Gretchen. That was the father's right and there wasn't anything they could do. He turned back to John and gave a nod. "Of course, Mr. Winchester. Will you authorize the doctor to release the medical records of your two boys?"

"If it'll help nail these little bastards, yes. What did you find at this warehouse of theirs?"

"It's an ongoing investigation, sir. We'll let you know," Gretchen said apologetically.

"Of course," John growled. "I'll have Sammy out here in about an hour. Come back then."

The officers rose. "Certainly," Gretchen said, cutting off any protest from her partner. "Mr. Winchester, we are terribly sorry for what happened to you children."

"Thank you," John said stiffly.

As soon as the officers were gone, John stepped out into the hallway so he could see anyone that might overhear. He pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He got Mac's voicemail, and it said he'd be incommunicado for a good couple months. _What the fuck?_ John thought. Mac hadn't said anything to him about it. He left a message for Mac to call him as soon as he got the message. He hit speed dial for Caleb and in essence, got the same voicemail. He dialed Bobby next and waited impatiently. If he got the same fucking message from Bobby he was going to—

"Hey, John," Bobby answered gruffly. He sounded out of breath.

"I need you here. Now."

"Hang on," Bobby said. John heard him huffing and then the opening and closing of a door. A minute later, he came back on. "Okay, give me the address. What do I need to bring?"

"I'm in Deidersville, Illinois, south-west of Chicago. I've got a couple rooms at the Kokomo Inn on Tenth Street. Just bring regular weapons, Bobby. This isn't supernatural."

"What's going on, John?" Bobby asked, his voice suddenly filled with concern.

John's voice came out thick sounding. "I need backup."

Bobby didn't pursue it. He'd find out soon enough. "On my way John. I should be there by nightfall, if the weather don't slow me down."

John hesitated then asked, "Can you bring 4 tires for Dean's car, too?" John knew he was going to have to sell Dean's car. It would bring in a few hundred and that would buy him a few more nights at the Kokomo.

Bobby was silent a minute. He knew Dean's tires should have been good for at least another year. They hadn't been new, but they'd only had about 30,000 miles on them. "Sure thing, John."

"Thanks," John managed. "Do you know where the hell Mac and Caleb are?"

"Tri-Corp business," Bobby said, surprised. "They went to Africa, about a week ago. I figured they'd have told you 'fore they left."

John leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. After getting Sammy's message he hadn't even bothered to check the other messages. "Okay. Thanks."

_Dammit!_ John thought and checked his messages. Both Mackland and Caleb had left messages saying they'd be gone for at least two months, maybe as long as four. To fucking Africa. Why hadn't Jim told him? _Because he thought I already knew,_ John thought, disgusted with himself for not checking his voicemail. _Even if I had,_ he tried to console himself, _Caleb and Mac would have already been gone and out of reach._

_Recriminations won't help get them back any faster,_ John told himself. _Maybe Dean and Sam won't even need their help. But I'll be damned if I don't at least try to get Mac and Caleb here for them. I don't want to fail them again._ He punched in Cullen Ames phone number and prayed he was home. If anyone could get in touch with Mac and Caleb, it would be Cullen, Mac's father.

At the sixth ring, John braced himself to get the message that Cullen was out of reach as well. What the hell was he going to do then? Maybe Missouri could help—

"Jonathon. Good to hear from you," Cullen said, sounding pleased.

"Can you get in touch with Mac or Caleb?" John asked brusquely. He didn't have the time or the inclination for niceties.

"Not easily," Cullen said, his frown audible in his voice. "You know they're in Africa, right?"

"Yeah, but I need them here as soon as possible. My boys have been hurt and …and I think they're going to need Mac and Caleb to get through it."

Cullen's voice had grown concerned. "I'll find them, Jonathon. Do you need help?"

"I'm calling in some hunters to watch our backs."

Cullen was silent a moment, obviously trying to figure out what could have happened to the boys. If John was calling in hunters, perhaps it was a hunt that had gone badly and somehow entangled the boys. He sighed to himself and wished the man would settle his boys down in a safe place. He knew how much the Winchester boys meant to his son and grandson. "Where are you?"

"St. Agnes Hospital, Deidersville, Illinois. I'm staying at the Kokomo Inn, at least for now. If you can't reach me on my cell, try there." He pulled out number he'd scrawled on a piece of paper and read off the phone number to Cullen.

"As soon as I get in touch with them, I'll let you know, but they're already out in the bush. They called me Thursday and said they were getting ready to take a plane out and meet up with a guide, but they didn't give me any specifics. They said they'd call next chance they got but it'd probably be a good few weeks."

John winced. His boy needed Caleb and Mackland as soon as possible. Both his boys did. With the telepathic abilities Mac and Caleb had, they could surely help his sons through this trauma in ways John could never hope to. They'd gotten the all but catatonic four-year old Dean through the loss of Mary and could certainly offer better support than anyone for his boys. Having his protégé there to help watch their backs was an added bonus, and Mac wasn't any slacker either. "Thanks."

John paged through his phone book, then began making phone calls. After a half dozen calls, he'd gotten Jonas, Boone, and Joshua committed to helping. With Jim, Bobby and himself, that gave them six hunters in all. Maybe it was overkill, but Sammy had said there were at least thirteen gang-members. If they couldn't protect his boys from a gang of kids, they had no right calling themselves hunters.


	18. Chapter 18

Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

**For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**

Rating: **M. Warning.** Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

And now that I've scared you, know that the real focus of the story is psychological trauma and the impact of the terrible events on the Winchesters. Doesn't mean it's not still dark.

* * *

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 18**

_My scars are written all over me  
__You see through everything I am  
__It's all because  
__My scars are written all over me  
__One secret's all that I have left_

_--My Scars, Neverset_

**Now:  
**_May 15__th__, Louisville, KY_

Starting Taz's physical exam, Dr Boroughs pulled a pen light free of her lab coat pocket. "I'm going to check your eyes, then take a look at the injuries on the side of your face. Do you have a headache, or is your neck stiff?"

"No," Dean said. He blinked at the bright light briefly shone into each eye then hesitantly turned his head so she could check his bandages. He tried not to flinch from her when she gently pried one side of the bandages free.

After studying his road-rashed temple and cheek she told Taz, "The bleeding's stopped and it looks good, considering. I'm going to put some antibiotic ointment on it and re-bandage it." She finished pulling off the old bandages and, after a quick and gentle wash with antiseptic, she patted his face dry and put fresh ointment-smeared bandages back over the scrapes. "I'm going to check your jaw and neck for bruises or pain. You let me know if something hurts."

"I told you, my neck feels fine!" Dean snapped. He wished she'd just hurry. Why'd she have to do an exam anyhow? It wasn't like he'd been hit by a car or something.

Darling cleared his throat. "Cooperation equals coffee," he gently reminded the teen.

Glaring at him, the youth huffed. "Fine. Whatever. Just get it done."

With Taz's reluctant permission, Dr Boroughs checked his jaw and neck, feeling only tense muscles beneath her fingers. He suddenly dipped his shoulder away from her touch and a hiss escaped his lips. "Taz?" she asked.

"It nothing," Dean said stiffly. He pressed his lips together, annoyed with himself for letting the pain get to him.

"C'mon, Taz," Dr. Boroughs coaxed. "You want me to start prodding and poking around your neck and shoulders again?"

He could probably keep from pulling away from her if he really tried but he decided it wasn't worth it. It would make her that much more suspicious and that much more thorough and he just wanted her hands off him. "Darling caught me by my right arm when I tried to jump. I think he dislocated my shoulder, but I guess it popped back in. It moves okay. Just hurts."

"Let's check its range of motion. Show me how far you can move it before it hurts." She stepped back, hoping it might help relax him a bit if she let him do it by himself.

Dean moved his arm slowly, not wanting to yank out the I.V. He could tell he couldn't move his shoulder quite as far as he should, but there was less pain than he expected. Thinking back to the bridge he remembered the excruciating pain in his shoulder as Darling caught hold of him. After that he vaguely recalled his shoulder hurting a lot when the cops cuffed him and pulled him to his feet. He wondered if his shoulder had simply popped back in or maybe he'd never dislocated it in the first place but it just felt like he had.

After watching his range of movement, she gently prodded the joint. "Looks like it's just strained. It's certainly not dislocated at this point. I'll get you some anti-inflammatories and we'll sling that arm before you leave." To put that arm in a sling, she'd need to move the I.V. and she didn't want to do that right now considering how jumpy he was. She figured if his shoulder hurt, it wasn't likely he'd be moving it or waving his arm around. "Okay let's get this t-shirt off so I can see what sort of injuries you have and get that back of yours cleaned up and bandaged." She'd seen Taz's back when he was having his panic attack due to the pulse oximeter and clutching the officer in terror. It was a scraped up mess.

Dean started to work at pulling off his t-shirt. "What about the I.V.?"

"Taz, with your shoulder strained, trying to take off your t-shirt is a bad idea. Let me just cut it off," she said.

Twisting his head to look up at her, Taz asked with exasperation, "What the hell is it with you medic types? You get a kick out of using those scissors of yours to shred people's clothes or something?"

At his annoyed look, she felt the laughter bubble up from inside her. "No, but we don't want injured people trying to struggle out of their clothing and hurting themselves more." She gave a sudden grin. "Okay, sometimes it is fun," she admitted, "especially when it's someone with nothing but a scraped elbow and too much alcohol."

Dean said smugly, "I knew it." He bit his lip a moment then asked. "My shirt's ruined, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said. Seeing how crestfallen he was by the confirmation, she added, "I'm sorry."

Gazing down, he studied the holes in the front of his green t-shirt. A few of those were courtesy of Darling's tackle, just like his scraped up face and shoulder. He had a pretty good idea what the back probably looked like considering he was dragged up and over the concrete barrier. The shirt was surely way beyond a needle-and-bit-of-thread fix.

"Crap," Dean muttered. At least it wasn't one of his rock concert t-shirts, but like his jeans, it had been new. "Okay. Have your fun, but I want you where I can see you and your scissors."

She pulled the scissors from their bright blue holster on her belt and slowly moved in closer to Taz. Carefully she cut straight up the front of the tee and then cut the shoulder seams. The front of the shirt sagged.

Moving the tray with her supplies closer, she grimaced when she got a second view of his back. The shirt was indeed a lost cause and she could see long vertical scrapes beneath the torn shirt. Blood darkened much of its fabric and some of it had dried, attaching fabric to some of the wounds. She'd have to wet those areas down and gently ease the fabric away from his back or risk re-opening clotted over wounds.

"Taz, I'm going to put some water on your back to try to make it easier to pull away the shirt. You okay with that?"

"Just pull it away now," Dean told her.

"There's no sense in that. It'll just take me…"

Grabbing the front of the shirt, Dean yanked hard, barely flinching as he felt the fabric tug at his wounds then release. "There. See. Just like a band-aid."

Watching the fresh blood well up in spots, she ground her teeth, wanting to smack the kid. "Are you always this much of a handful, Taz?" she growled.

Dean pursed his lips as he considered. He gave a sharp nod and, giving a glance to Darling, a sudden smile pulled at his lips. "Yeah. Usually. When I'm not trying to off myself." He looked away from the officer and let his gaze wander over the sterile room. "I dunno that my dad and brother would agree, at least not these past weeks."

"Why is that?" she asked as she poured antiseptic into the emesis basin on the tray.

He gave a small shrug and picked at some pilling on the blanket. "Not been real … talkative. Look, can we get this over with?"

She sensed it best to let the comment drop, at least for now. She didn't want to lose his cooperation. Well, he bordered on being cooperative, at least. Nothing like the patient the paramedic had written about and she'd anticipated.

"I'll be using some wet gauze to start with, okay?" she said, dipping some gauze into the kidney-shaped basin she'd just filled. She noted the faint definition of the muscles in his back. He'd obviously been a workout junky.

"…Yeah, I guess," Dean said. _They_ hadn't really done much to his back while he was sitting in the chair, so her working on his back only tickled his heightened panic-button rather than sending him into full-fledged alarm mode. He felt her carefully tuck a towel along the waistband of his jeans, then felt her gentle ministrations as she cleaned his back with cool water. He tried not to shift uneasily as he felt the water run down his back. He tried to forget the battery, but the water was beginning to spook him.

"Is the water too cold?" Doctor Boroughs asked, seeing him begin to tense. "Do I need to go more slowly? Is it hurting too much?"

"The water could be warmer," the teen admitted, "but it's okay. You won't be much longer, right?" There was almost a note of pleading in the last of his words.

"Not too much longer," she agreed and increased her pace while attempting to maintain her gentleness. Small dark green fibers peppered his abrasions. To her it felt like the cleaning of his wounds was taking forever. She chuckled to herself. Taz was quite probably of the same opinion.

Bruises had begun to splotch his pale skin, shades of purples, yellows, greens, and blues becoming apparent. Her breath caught as she saw the faint lines of old and new scars. Her eyes traced the scars of what she initially judged to be a dog bite, but the bite marks seemed larger than any dog she knew of. Some scars were small and jagged, some long, some almost round. A few were indisputably burns and one was definitely a gunshot wound.

"You've got a lot of scars," she said conversationally. The teenager looked as if he'd been abused for years. She dipped a fresh gauze pad into the small bowl of water and focused on his abrasions.

"Thanks for the news flash, Doc."

"How'd you come by so many?" she asked as she worked, keeping her voice level. She didn't want to put the teen on the defensive.

Dean huffed. "It's not like my family lives in the safest of neighborhoods. Me and my brother got attacked by deranged pit bulls I don't know, maybe six or seven years ago. I was in a car accident that put me through the front window. Learned my damned lesson about seatbelts that day. I've been in a lot of fights, some at school, some in the 'hoods I've lived in. Once I went over a chain link fence and didn't quite clear it. Son of a bitch laid me open like my back was made of butter. Are you satisfied or do I need to recount how I got every one of my scars?"

"There are an awful lot for someone your age--" she began, not sure she bought his explanations. She spotted the long vertical scars Taz had implied were from the chain link fence. The spacing seemed wrong and why were there only four slashes?

Dean twisted so he could look her in the eyes. "I know what it looks like. It looks like my dad's abused the hell out of me. I won't deny Dad's tough on me and Sammy, but he would never hurt us. Hell, one time when he was teaching me to fight, I missed blocking a punch he threw and I dropped like a rock. I thought the old man was going to have a heart attack then and there. I got reamed royally for being sloppy and not blocking the punch, but I also got M&Ms and ice cream for two weeks solid." He gave her something approaching a grin. "Not that I milked it or anything." His grin faded and his voice turned sincere. "Dad didn't give me any of these scars, Doc. If he ever tried to abuse me or Sammy, I wouldn't have stuck around, and I sure as hell wouldn't have left my little brother with him." He gave her a condescending glare. "I'm not a fucking idiot."

She gazed into his green eyes and saw nothing but honesty in them. She'd seen a lot of abused kids while she was in New York and felt it in her gut that Taz wasn't abused by his family. Giving a slow nod, she said, "I believe you, Taz."

"About time someone in this town does," the youth muttered.

"Now face forward so I can finish cleaning your back," she ordered. She still had a feeling he wasn't telling her everything but she did believe the source of the scars wasn't from his family.

Turning around, Dean tried to relax under her touch. The water on his back only made him colder.

"Almost done," she reassured him and finally tossed the last blood-soaked gauze into the biological waste trashcan. Using a white towel, she dried his back.

"There. You're back's cleaned up. I'm going to put a few bandages on the bleeders, then I need to check for any additional injuries. Would you prefer I check your chest or back for injuries first?" she asked. She wasn't sure how much of his obvious discomfort had to do with her being at his vulnerable backside, or her presence in general. She taped the bandages in place and used two butterfly bandages over a particularly deep cut.

"Chest. Chest would be good," Dean said quickly. Even though he just wanted her away from him, he had to admit he kind of liked Dr. Boroughs. She was sensitive to his panic-level and he appreciated that fact. She reminded him a little of Dr. McCoy, but it had taken Dr. McCoy a few times to really learn how to deal with the "broken" Dean. Dr. Boroughs was pretty much spot on from the get go. At the moment, having her where he could see her would definitely ease his jitters.

After stripping off her damp gloves and putting on a fresh pair, she moved in front of him, giving him a warm smile. She wasn't surprised she didn't get one in return. His gaze simply dropped from hers and went back to studying the apparently immensely interesting blanket. Using some damp gauze, she wiped away the smudges of dirt he'd gotten through the tears in his shirt. A few bruises were already forming on his chest. Like his back, his chest was scarred, though there appeared to be fewer of them. She saw more abrasions on his left shoulder, the same side as his road-rashed face. She glanced at the officer. "You're rough on my patients."

Darling gave a shrug. "If I hadn't been, he'd be in the morgue instead of the emergency room. That was from his second attempt to fly."

"It's recommended to use a plane when you fly, Taz," she teased the teen.

"Hate planes," he mumbled.

"Bad experience?" she asked as she cleaned his abraded shoulder. The scrapes were hardly deep enough to draw blood. Mostly it had just taken off the top layer of skin in places.

"Don't like 'em, okay?" he snapped.

"I hate boats, myself. Can't swim." _Don't annoy the already paranoid kid,_ she told herself. "Okay, Taz. I'm going to check your collar bones, your sternum, then your ribs," she told him. After Taz gave her a curt nod, she began. He was tense and she could tell he wanted to pull away from her, but he let her do her job. Other than some light bruising, he seemed fine. "I'll check your abdomen in a few. I'm going to check your ribs and work around to your back."

Dean tensed even more as she ran her gloved hands over his ribs. He jumped when her fingers went over his right side and over a particularly nasty bruise.

"Does it hurt to breathe?" she asked as she continued her check. His lungs had sounded clear when she'd listened to them a few minutes prior so she didn't believe there was any damage to them.

"A little, but I think my ribs are just bruised," Dean conceded.

"You're doing good, Taz," Doctor Boroughs said. She ran her hands along his spine, but the only time he inhaled sharply was when she brushed across a bruise on his T4 vertebrae. "How badly does that hurt?"

"Like it bashed into concrete," Dean said, remembering slamming against the barrier when Darling's partner had grabbed his other arm. "It just feels tender," Dean said. "My back doesn't hurt, not like that, anyhow."

"Not like what?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant as she probed more gently around it. Even though it was bruised, there didn't seem to be any unusual swelling.

"Like it's fractured or something," he said.

"You've fractured your spine before?" she asked. God what else had this teenager been through?

"No, but I'd think it would hurt like hell if I had. Wouldn't it?" Dean asked. He thought back over the various injuries he'd gotten. For all the times he'd been thrown into walls, tossed about, or some of the flat out tumbles he'd taken in training, he imagined it was just shy of a miracle he hadn't ever hurt his spine. Sure, he'd been stiff and sore a lot of times—and he knew he was going to feel these injuries tomorrow for certain--but he'd rarely broken bones. He'd sprained ankles and wrists numerous times but as for bones he'd only ever broken a couple fingers, his leg once, and his arm once. Well, before the gang got a hold of him, but that didn't count as far as he was concerned.

"A cracked vertebrae doesn't always hurt that bad. We'll get it x-rayed. I'm going to check your arms and hands now." She examined his arms, looking for injuries and checking for needle marks. She saw new scars mixed with old, and noted that some of the newest were along his right arm and hand. The new scars were undisputedly from reconstructive surgery. She studied his hand and the scars again. "You've got a good reconstructive surgeon working on your hand and arm." She studied the wicked set of bruises on his right forearm. There was a chance some damage had been done to tendons based on the bruising. She gave Darling a scowl.

"First time he tried to fly," Darling said without apology.

She gently checked Taz's left thumb to see if Taz had injured it when he'd pulled free of the restraint, but it didn't appear to be anything more than badly bruised. "We need to put you in a gown. I can't let you out of your leg restraints, so I'm going to cut your jeans off, okay?"

After studying the doctor a moment he decided the raw reaction he'd given the paramedic wouldn't work as well on her as puppy-eyed begging. Besides, he wasn't as freaked and 'lost' now as he'd been in the ambulance. He'd resort to violence with her only if he had to. She was in too good a position to see him back in full restraints and sedated and he desperately didn't want that. He noticed that Darling eased closer to him, expecting him to go ballistic.

"Aw, c'mon Doc. I'll be good. Please don't cut them off. You can put my arms back in the restraints, but don't cut off my jeans. My dad just bought them for me. Please?" he begged.

The doctor stared into his eyes. She had worked with a lot of patients that had to be in restraints. Some pretended to cooperate until opportunity let them lash out. She could see Taz's desperate need for her to believe him, to trust him. If he'd been crestfallen over a ruined t-shirt, cutting up his jeans would probably really upset him. "All right. You get your jeans down as far as you can. I'll put the wrist restraints back on you, and then I'll finish pulling off your jeans. So help me, though, if you kick me…"

Dean looked over at Darling. "He won't give me coffee or M&Ms if I do. I won't. I promise." He paused and gave her a heartfelt look. "Thanks. I don't get many new clothes. We don't have the money for it. We mostly shop at Goodwill."

"You're welcome," she said, giving him a smile. "After we get your jeans off, we'll put you in a gown. If you promise to cooperate, we could get you turned on your stomach so you don't have to lie on your injured back."

Dean shook his head violently, fear creeping into his eyes. "Don't make me do that."

She gently placed a hand on his left shoulder but he jerked away from her. "Okay, Taz, I understand," she said, glancing at Officer Darling, Darling's information about the warehouse attack strong in her mind. "We'll get you some extra pillows for you to lie on instead. That be better for you?"

"Yeah. T-thanks." Dean shivered, as much from the thought of being on his stomach and in restraints as from the cold seeping back into his bones.

Pulling a gown off a shelf, she shook it open and handed it to him. "It ties in back, but why don't you just put your arms in it and leave it draped over you. You don't need the ties digging into your injuries."

She saw Taz glance at the I.V. She moved over to it, disconnected it and, as soon as he'd gotten his arm in the sleeve, she reconnected it before he had a chance to even realize it. Taz's glare at her almost made her chuckle. She put two extra pillows on the cot for him to lie on. "Try that."

Dean leaned back gingerly. It wasn't really comfortable, but it was better than lying on his stomach. Anything was better than that. This he could tolerate so long as he didn't shift around too much. "This'll work. I guess I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I?"

"You're a joy compared to some I've worked with. Can you get your jeans off now?"

"Do I gotta take off my shorts, too?" Dean asked as he slowly sat back up.

"Yes," the doctor said apologetically.

Exhaling in frustration, Dean muttered, "This really sucks." he muttered.

He undid his jeans and wiggled out of them and his undershorts and got them down to his knees. Lying back on the pillows, he slid his wrists into the restraints. "I'm getting really cold. Can you make this fast?"

"I'll try," she said as she tightened the restraints, sliding the leather straps under each of the metal bars. She saw the tension coil back into the young man and really wished she didn't have to restrain him, but she knew it would be foolish of her not to. He'd proven himself both violent and suicidal.

After she pulled the blanket over his chest, she moved to his ankles. She did each leg separately, releasing the restraint, pulling off his jeans and undershorts, and refastening each ankle restraint in turn. Flipping the blanket aside she checked over his legs. A few scars streaked his legs here and there and she shook her head. This teen had seen far too much pain in his short life. She cut away the bandage on his knee and examined the wound, then put a fresh bandage back on. She noticed a light bruise on the other knee. The kid had certainly been through the wringer, but it was a far sight better than his dead body being pulled from the river.

"I thought a nurse would do a lot of this," Dean said, watching her curiously. He tugged at the wrist restraints a little, almost out of habit. He was trying hard not to think about the fact he was fully restrained again. If he did, he knew he'd start to panic again. He took a few slow breaths, hoping to keep himself calm.

"You're a special case. I thought it best you if didn't have to deal with too many strangers. I'm going to check to see if your hips are injured. I'll need to press down on them and then compress them together. Will you be okay with that?"

"Yeah."

She pulled the blanket back down over his legs and pressed down on his hips then compressed them, watching his face to see if he grimaced. "Any pain?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Okay, I'm going to check your abdomen for tenderness." She didn't really expect to find anything, not with the way he'd been moving. She knew she should have checked his abdomen as one of the first things she examined, but as she told him, he was a special case. She doubted if he would have let her check his abdomen when she first approached him. Though Taz was watching her warily, he only shifted uncomfortably once and that was when she pressed where she knew one of his worst bruises was on his back. She didn't feel any injury-type tension is his abdomen and nodded to herself, pleased. He'd been, as he had promised, more cooperative than she could have hoped for.

She pulled the blanket up to his shoulders then added another blanket over him. "I'll have an x-ray machine sent in. I don't want to wrap your ribs until I know if they're cracked or just bruised."

"Can I have my coffee and M&Ms now, please?" Taz begged her, pulling minutely at all his restraints. _Like an animal pacing in a cage it knows it can't escape,_ she thought sadly.

She hesitated then nodded. "I don't see why not, since you've apparently been begging for them since the bridge. You're not going to stop cooperating after you get them, are you?"

"Keep the coffee coming, and I'll be the best behaved patient you've ever seen," he said solemnly.

She gave a slight chuckle and nodded to Darling. The officer smiled and stepped out to the coffee maker. He heard Taz call after him, "Make it black, please!" He poured Taz a fresh cup of coffee and put a lid on it.

Once Darling returned, Dean looked at the doctor hopefully. He really didn't want Darling to have to help him eat and drink.

Dr. Boroughs measured Taz and Officer Darling. "I'm going to release your arms so long as the officer is with you," she looked to confirm Darling was agreeable to that. He gave a nod. "Any trouble though, and you'll be back in your restraints so fast it'll make your head spin. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you," he said sincerely, relief washing over his face. He pulled at his restraints almost anxiously.

She released the restraints on his arms and started to help him sit up, but he dodged her offered aid and sat up on his own. She raised the head of the bed so he could lean back against the pillows if he wanted to.

"I'll be back in to check on you in a bit," she said and handed him an icepack for his shoulder. "A nurse will be by with some Motrin. Do you feel comfortable taking that? It'll help with the pain and swelling."

Dean frowned. "Pills?"

"Yes," she said, practically holding her breath. He'd been adamant about no drugs. She wondered if he thought of painkillers as falling into the same category as the drugs he feared.

He considered. "Basically it's aspirin."

"Basically," she agreed.

"You swear it'll just be Motrin?" He eyed her suspiciously, nervously clutching and releasing the blanket.

She raised her right hand. "My word, Taz."

Cocking an eyebrow at her he asked, "If it's not Motrin, that mean I get to kick your ass for lying to me?"

Though she knew he was probably quite serious, she chuckled anyhow. "Yes, you can kick my ass."

Dean suddenly broke into a grin. Yeah, he liked this doctor. She approached being pretty cool. For a doctor. "All right. I'll take 'em"

She grinned back at him, marveling at how his smile made his entire face light up, transforming him from a frightened and wary youth into a confidant and maybe be even happy-go-lucky young man. That smile. If she were twenty years younger or he twenty years older, that smile would melt her into a little pile of quivering goo. She smirked to herself. Hell, even just a ten year spread…. She pushed the silly thoughts away, though she was still charmed by his smile. She fervently hoped that grin of his came to him far more often in the future than it seemed to have come for him in the recent past. She hoped he could find a way to put the warehouse behind him. Giving a slight wave, she left the room.

Darling slid a tray in front of Taz and set the coffee on it, then pulled out the peanut M&Ms and opened the package, spilling them into a semblance of a pile on the tray. He watched as Taz smelled the coffee, took a careful sip of it and sighed contentedly, then popped a couple M&Ms into his mouth. Darling sat down in the chair beside Taz's bed.

"You've been more cooperative than I figured you would be after your escapades on the bridge and in the ambulance," Darling said. "You don't seem quite so 'lost.'" He leaned back in the chair and tried to get comfortable. Hospital chair. Comfortable. Hah. More like a plastic scoop shaped torture device devised by sadistic engineers.

Dean shrugged but wouldn't look at him. "I guess no one's doing anything to trigger flashbacks. I'm cold. I'm tired. I ache. I'm hungry. This is a better option than finding another bridge to freeze under. Kinda. And I'm hoping maybe Sammy will be with my dad. I really want to see my brother. I miss him. He's going to be so pissed at me, though."

"For trying to jump off the bridge?" Darling asked. He could see Taz was still shivering a little so he got out of the chair and grabbed another blanket from the wire rack.

"Yeah."

"What about your dad? Do you want to see him?" Darling shook the blanket open and wrapped it around the young man's shoulders.

Dean finally looked up, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, grateful for it. "Not really. He's going to send me back to the cracker-factory. I don't want to go."

"Because it smelled like the gang member who beat and raped you," Darling said as he settled back into the chair.

Dean nodded miserably. "Yeah. Guess it freaked me."

"Why do you think it smelled like the gang member?" Darling prodded.

Dean played with a few of the M&Ms before popping them into his mouth. "Juarez always smelled of this one cheap cologne. Distinct, kinda musky and nasty as hell." Dean snorted. "Who knows. Maybe it wasn't cheap. Probably one of those fifty bucks a bottle stuff."

"If the place didn't smell of Juarez, do you think you could go back?"

Dean shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. He popped off the lid and blew across it. He saw Darling tense.

"If you think I'm going to throw this at you, you're nuts," Dean said and gave him a grin. "It tastes too damned good to waste. Besides," he hesitated, an embarrassed look crossed his face as his voice shifted to a soft, almost young tone, "you saved my life. Even though I didn't want you to. And you've hung with me. And you kept your promise. You got me M&Ms and coffee. Promises are important. They should be kept."

Darling relaxed a little. The little boy in Taz's previously so hard voice made Darling wish again that he could find a way to help the youth. "You're welcome, Taz." He paused then asked, "Why did you call me the last resort?"

Dean started to speak, stopped, then gave a small sigh. "Dad does a lot a traveling. He goes away on business. A lot. I watch over my brother and take care of him. Social services would take us away from Dad and probably split us up. We only call in the cops as a last resort because CPS might think Dad's not there as much as he probably should be."

"If that's the case, you don't think you and Sammy might have been better off in a normal home?"

Taz's laugh was bitter. "We've been in foster homes before. Look, I know there are probably plenty of great foster parents out there, but the ones we got sucked and just to make it really great, the bastards split us up. No way in hell. My life isn't all crackerjacks and M&Ms, but it's not a bad life. Not usually. Not until…" He swallowed hard. "You know."

Darling nodded. "Yes. It's a miracle you survived and got away."

Dean gave a small smile. "Yeah. A miracle named Sammy. Stupid geek. He found where they were holding me. He called the cops then got me out of there."

"Is he the one you failed?" Darling asked quietly.

Inhaling sharply, Dean looked away from the officer. "He says I didn't," Dean whispered. "But I know I did. I know what they did to him. They thought I was unconscious. I never should have faked it. If I hadn't, they wouldn't have turned to him. But I …I hurt so much. With Isabelle, they waited for her to wake up before they'd start on her again. Before they finally killed her. I thought they'd do the same—wait for me to wake back up. I didn't think they'd turn to him. I thought they'd just wait until I was 'awake' again. By the time I realized, they already had him…had him…" Dean felt the tears come. "It's all my fault! I can't fix it! I want to fix it, but I can't! I fucked up so bad. How can Dad or Sammy forgive me?" His gaze came back to Darling, begging Darling to give him some miracle answer that would make the world right again and heal his broken soul.

Darling sighed to himself. He had no magical answers to help the teen. Taz's problems were way out of his league and he knew it. "Matt," he said softly and laid his hand on Taz's arm. He saw Taz shudder but Taz didn't pull away. "You need to talk to someone about this. You're carrying guilt for something way beyond your control. You're not going to regain what you lost unless you get help. You said you didn't want to be afraid anymore. The psychiatrists can help you. They're pretty good at fixing what's broken. But you have to talk with them. Talk with them like you're talking to me. I can listen, but that's all I can do. I can't fix you. They can."

"They tied me down!" Dean shouted at him and ripped his arm from Darling's touch. "They gave me drugs! Just like Juarez did. Just like them!"

Darling sat straighter and took his hand away from Taz's bedside. "Calm down, Taz. I hear you. I understand why you're afraid of the place. Everything took you back to the warehouse, where they tortured you, where they did what they did to you, to Isabelle, to Sammy."

Dean's breath came in gulps. "I don't wanna go back there."

"Okay. It's okay, Taz. Just take a few deep breaths and calm down. I'll talk with your father. I'll see if he can't take you someplace else. Someplace that won't remind you of the warehouse. Would that be okay with you? If I talk with him?"

Dean shrugged and moved his coffee closer, wrapping his hands around the cup as if to warm his hands as he stared into the dark brown liquid. He knew his father would abandon him no matter where he ended up, no matter what Darling said to him. He'd be alone again. He blinked back his tears and hoped Sam would at least come visit him sometimes. Even if Sam didn't forgive him, he hoped Sam wouldn't forget him.


	19. Chapter 19

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

**For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape, and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 19**

_I am restless, and I keep trembling  
__Everyone watch me as I descend  
__Into a feeling that's overwhelming me  
__I finally stopped, stopped making sense._

_--Run, Don't Walk, Hey Monday_

**Then:  
**_March 21, Deidersville, Illinois_

John opened sleepy eyes when he heard the soft knock on his partly open bedroom door. A glance at the red glowing numbers on the clock at his bedside told him it was 4:14 am and his first thought was that Dean had taken a turn for the worst. Snapping fully awake as he sat up, his gaze shot to the door, fear wrapping slender fingers around his heart as it prepared to squeeze.

"Boone just pulled in," Joshua said softly. "You said you wanted to know."

The breath shuddered out of John, filmy remnants of nightmares still clinging to him. Dean was okay. Joshua's words cut through his fine spider web of fear. The last hunter had arrived.

"Thanks, Joshua," John said gruffly. "Any coffee made?"

"Sorry. Got some earl grey tea going in my suite. Want me to pour you a cup?" Joshua asked quietly, knowing full well what the man's answer would be.

John could hear Joshua's smirk. "No. Thanks," John grumbled. "I'll meet Boone. Sammy still asleep?"

"Unless your voice woke him," Joshua said.

John bit back his snarl at the man as he pulled on his clothes discarded at the bedside the night prior. Through gritted teeth John asked, "Anything going on out there?"

"I thought I saw some movement out by the fence," Joshua tossed over his shoulder as he headed back to his post by the window in his darkened suite.

After sliding on his boots and retrieving his gun from the nightstand, he strode over to the second bedroom; Sam was still in exhausted slumber. That Sam hadn't woken to his thoughtlessly loud voice told him just how exhausted his boy was. He scowled as he looked toward the open door that led to the adjoining suite where Joshua was on guard. Earl Grey Tea. God, Joshua could be such a … no, he was here to help, pain in the ass or not.

John shrugged on his coat and after confirming the gun's safety was on, he slipped his 9-mm into the holster inside his coat. Opening the exterior door, he came face-to-face with the red-haired hunter. John motioned Boone back as John exited the door into the cold March morning. Scanning the fence line at the edge of the parking lot, he saw nothing but shadows.

When the door opened, Boone back-pedaled, startled. At John's waved hand he stepped to the side and planted his back against the brick wall, his eyes watchful of his surroundings as he sipped his coffee. Looking over, he gave a tired smile. "You scared the shit out of me, John. Figured it'd be few minutes before you reached the door _after_ I knocked. You got some psychic mojo going on you never told me about?"

"Not hardly. Glad you could make it," John said, shaking the retired hunter's hand.

"You're gonna owe me big for this one. Kathleen's not real happy with me being here. Anniversary's coming up." Boone stuck his empty hand in his pocket. The chill from the brick he leaned against tried to worm its way into him, but he was still warm from the heat he'd had going in his truck.

John furrowed his brow. "You two got married?"

Boone's soft bark of laughter fogged the cold air in front of him. "Sure. Right after she rode the unicorn into the Boonedocks Bar. No. Anniversary of our first date."

John thought back to the stories Boone and he had shared over shots of tequila through the years. "Didn't your first date amount to you saving her from a poltergeist? And didn't you end up with a black eye from her at the end of it because she thought you were full of shit?"

"Yeah. Pretty much. She still figures it was the closest thing we ever had to a first date. Women. Gotta mark time somehow, I guess. So what the hell's going on? Looks like a hunter's convention." He gave a nod to the cars in the lot, identifying Jim's pickup, Bobby's beat up old car, Jonas' SUV, and he suspected the high-end rental parked with the others was Mackland's. "You didn't really give me much to use as ammunition against the little lady's rants."

John sighed, eyeing Boone's coffee and wishing he had some of his own, a small voice inside him cursing Joshua and his pansy-ass tea. He could get some made in a few minutes, he consoled himself.

A grin split Boone's face and he handed John his cup of coffee, walked over to his dark blue pickup, and pulled out another cup of java. He returned to John's side and out of the bitter wind, giving John the fresh cup while he took back his own half empty one. "So fill me in," Boone said.

"Got a gang that's after my boys," John said, gratefully accepting the offered coffee. Like him, Boone preferred his coffee strong and black. He sipped at the still steaming liquid, glad for its heat and hoping the caffeine would kick in before his waking adrenalin faded.

Frowning, Boone gave John a hard look. "Not supernatural."

"I told you that on the phone," John said, barely stopping himself from snapping at the man. He was just so damned tired. What little sleep he managed to get was plagued with nightmares of horrible things happening to his boys with him helpless to save them.

"A gang, like the Crips or Boolds?" Boone asked with a raised eyebrow. It was really the last thing he'd expected to hear. He hadn't been sure what John's cryptic request of "I need you in Chicago. My boys are in trouble. Can you come?" and then the added note that it wasn't supernatural but that he should come packing anyway. As if he wouldn't. There was obviously some reason John didn't just take his boys and haul ass out of town.

Giving a half shrug as he sipped more of the black coffee, John said, "They're called the Dementors." He forced himself to push on, struggling to keep his voice level. "Beat, tortured, and raped Dean. Beat and raped Sam."

Boone stared at John a moment, processing the words the hunter said. Those boys were John's everything. He'd known that same feeling once. Before he'd been a hunter. The loss of that feeling being why he'd become a hunter in the first place.

A flicker of pain in his own eyes, Boone nodded sagely. "And this gang isn't too happy your boys got away." He added quickly, "They did get away?"

"They got away," John confirmed. "We've spotted a few teens watching us as we've come and gone, both here and at the hospital, so no sense trying to change motels. All they'd have to do is follow one of us from the hospital to track us to a new motel. This is the closest motel, we've got a good view of the surroundings, and there's not a lot of obstacles those bastards can hide behind. The gang's already messed with the Impala. Drained her master cylinder. Yesterday someone tried to mug Jonas when he went out to get some food. Told the fool not to go alone. He got stabbed in the arm, fourteen stitches, but they were aiming for his ribs."

"Sounds like you need to keep 'round the clock watches."

John jerked his head toward the room beside his own. "Joshua's on watch now. He woke me when you pulled in the lot. Also said he saw some movement out by the fence. So even at this time of night, that damned gang could be watching for an opportunity."

"Want to investigate if it is this gang out there? I've been driving awhile. I could use some loosening up."

John wanted to say yes, hell, every fiber in him wanted to go over and find some Dementors watching them. Instead he gave a shake of his head. "I catch hold of one of them, I'll put bullet in his brain. After I've castrated the son of a bitch. I can't--" He paused, wanting more than anything to go hunting, to gain vengeance. His jaw clenched. "My focus has to be on my boys. Nailing one or two of that gang won't do anything but stir up the nest and make them more dangerous, make them more cautious. I want them confident and cocky. I want them to get stupid. When I go after them, I want to go after them in force, nail them all, and salt and burn their bodies. Before the life's quite left them, if I have any say in the matter."

"Be happy to help in that, John," Boone said softly. "So Joshua Sawyer is here. Surprised the pretty witch boy came out for this." He looked back at the high-end rental. So not Mackland's.

John didn't try to cover his smirk. "He wasn't my first choice. He was a lot more ready to help when he learned Caleb wasn't here. I get the feeling he's going to take a lot of pleasure rubbing Caleb's nose in it." At Boone's questioning look, John added, "Mackland and Caleb are in Africa." _God damned Africa._ Please g_et a hold of them soon, Cullen_.

"So where are your boys? They both in the hospital?" Boone asked. _Better a hospital than a morgue,_ he thought to himself.

Looking away, John drew in a sharp breath, the icy air burning his lungs. "Sam's inside. Dean's …he still hasn't woke up. He's in the hospital. ICU."

"He gonna wake up?" Boone asked bluntly. He truly hoped John wouldn't have to bear the same thing he had, seeing his son laid out on a metal gurney.

John turned flashing eyes on the older hunter. "My boy's tough. He'll wake up."

The slight shake in John's voice told Boone that John was saying that as much to convince himself as to convince Boone. "So the doctors aren't too sure yet."

Swallowing back his fear, John growled, "He's off the ventilator and stable. He's going to be fine."

Boone's gave him a reassuring smile. "With Jim Murphy probably all but threatening the heavens, he's got a lot more going for him than most would. So where am I sleeping and when's my shift?"

John motioned with his coffee to his door. "You're sleeping in my room for now. The shifts," he paused, giving a soft but almost bitter laugh. "I tried the standard three shifts, but I'm at the hospital from about oh-eight hundred until about twenty-four hundred. I've got two hunters with Sam around the clock, two at the hospital, and someone always on watch here. For now, you're on watch here from fourteen hundred until seventeen hundred when Jim, Bobby, you, and Sam head over to the hospital with dinner for me. You stay with me and Sam until about twenty-four hundred when Jonas and Joshua relieve us."

"But you said Joshua's on watch here," Boone said. "According to your schedule, isn't he supposed to be at the hospital?"

"We're still getting shifts sorted out and with Dean being in ICU, it's not too likely a Dementor can get to him. Jonas is the only one on guard in the ICU waiting room right now. With you here, it should be easier to keep all my bases covered. Let's get your stuff inside. Do you want to get a few hours sleep or are you too wired?"

Boone snorted. "I can fall sleep anytime, anywhere, caffeinated or not."

As they walked out to Boone's pickup, John said casually, "You've always like that one rifle of mine. Your offer to buy it still on the table?"

Boone gave him a sidelong glance. "Money tight?"

"Been thinking of selling that rifle for awhile now, just haven't had a chance to call you and see if you still wanted it," John said, deflecting Boone's question.

Boone shook his head. Damned if Winchester wasn't one of the most stubborn men he'd ever met. "Let me think about it," Boone said as he retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out some bills. He handed John two hundred dollars. "Still owe you for clearing out that house in Clydesdale. Now we're even."

"You don't owe me anything--" John started to protest.

"Winchester, take the money and shut up," Boone growled as he slid his wallet back into his pocket. He knew it would only buy John a few days at the motel, but a few days were a few days his friend didn't have to worry about. He'd call Kathleen later and see what spare cash they might be able to pull together for the man. Winchester was a prideful man, but, and Boone grinned to himself, he could out-stubborn Winchester if he put his mind to it.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

After getting Boone settled into his room, John laid down on the couch, hoping to catch a quick, final nap before the day started. After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, he gave up. He'd like nothing better than to go out for a good long run and try to clear his head. While he was at it, he might as well paint a damned target on himself for those Dementor bastards. Recalling that the motel had a small workout room, he decided that it was better than nothing. He could stop by the reservations desk also and tack on another night for the two motel rooms with Boone's generous contribution to the Winchester-is-fucking-broke club. Still, he was going to have to do something to come up with some cash to be able to keep them at the motel. He could probably find some cheaper motels farther out of town, but he didn't want to be that far from Dean if he could avoid it. At least they'd gotten the new tires on Dean's GTO that Bobby had brought along and gotten the car moved to the motel lot after replacing the distributor cap and a few other missing or damaged parts. The car was covered in spray painted emblems of a heart split by a serpent wrapped around a pitchfork, two dice showing "snake eyes", and the letters 'DMNTR'. The gang symbol he'd been told. Bobby had a friend who'd give the GTO a fresh paint job on the cheap and they could replace the broken window without too much trouble. With any luck, that new paint job might get the price up to five-hundred when he went to sell it. He hated selling Dean's car, but he didn't see any other choice. The hospital would probably start asking him for money any day now and he just wasn't really sure what he was going to tell them.

John heard the shower going next door and poked his head through the doorway. Bobby was eating a danish he'd probably grabbed at a gas station on the way into town and drinking some coffee. Joshua was still sitting at the window, so Jim must be in the shower.

"I'm going down to the gym," John said quietly. "I'll be back in an hour."

"You want some company?" Bobby asked.

"I think I can walk to the end and around the corner to the lobby without getting jumped."

"Probably, but I'll stand at the door and watch your back until you do turn the corner," Bobby said and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

John didn't argue as he slipped into his room and grabbed some workout clothes that he stuffed in a duffel. After looking in on Sam one final time, he told Bobby, "Make sure Sammy takes his pills if I'm not back when he gets up. He shouldn't have them before 5:30." John indicated the brown prescription bottles sitting on the kitchen table.

"Will do," Bobby said.

John strode quickly to the door, feeling all the tension writhing inside him. The work out should help a lot. Running a few miles mindlessly would be better, but he thought he remembered the workout room had a treadmill; a poor substitute for the fresh cold air blowing in his face, but better than having to worry about watching his back.

He reached the lobby without incident and approached the man at the check in desk, almost surprised the little hotel had someone there before five am and that he didn't have to ring the service bell. The man was probably in his late forties or early fifties and after studying "Mr. Lochley" according to the nameplate on the counter, he realized Lochley was probably the owner of the place. A few of the pictures hanging in the lobby showed a man who looked very much like Lochley with famous actors and actresses from the around the nineteen sixties. The man's physique told John the reason the old motel had a workout room. The man wasn't as tall as John, but the man looked strong enough to give John a challenge.

"I'm here to tack on another night for the rooms," he told Lochley, laying cash on the counter. "Winchester," he added before the man had a chance to ask.

The man typed on the computer, then cocked an eyebrow at John, curiosity in his hazel gaze. "One extra night in addition to the three months already paid?"

John gaped at the man. "What? No, you must have me confused with someone else."

The man double-checked the computer. "No. John Winchester. Two adjoining suites, seven guests. Yes, I have something for you, too." The man rummaged through some files and pulled out a fax and handed it to John along with an envelope. He added quietly, "I hear you've got a son at St. Agnes."

John gave curt nod as he accepted the envelope and fax.

"We get a lot of out-of-towners staying here to be close to their loved ones." He pushed over a short stack of coupons for the small diner up the road that was on the way to the hospital. "They've got some good home-cooked food here."

John looked at the coupons. No, not coupons. Vouchers for free meals. He started to protest.

"No, no argument, Mr. Winchester. The diner brings these by for us to hand out to our guests with sick family members. Tommy, the owner, claims it brings in business because once you taste his food, you'll stop there all the time." Lochley gave a small chuckle. "Honestly, he simply has a heart of gold."

"Thanks," John said sincerely, silently wondering if he had "I-need-handouts" written on his freaking forehead. He was just too tired to argue and simply accepted the vouchers.

He put the coupons along with the money he'd laid down on the counter in his wallet; he'd already eaten at Tommy's Diner and they _did_ have good food. He turned his attention back to the fax. It was a letter from Cullen Ames, Mackland's father.

_John,_

_I took the liberty of paying your motel bill for the next few months. The motel informed me you have seven people in the two suites. I'm glad you were able to acquire aid. The Inn is reimbursing you for what you've paid so far, and that should give you enough money to buy some proper food and supplies for you and Samuel. _

_Do not concern yourself with the hospital bills. Those are being handled as well. You need to focus on those boys of yours. Don't even try to protest, Jonathon. My son and grandson would never forgive me for not offering you whatever help I can. If you need anything else, let me know. I'd best not hear from Mackland that you needed something more and didn't contact me. I'm still working on reaching Mackland and Caleb. I would appreciate a bit more details as to what happened. Both of them will want to know what's happened to your boys, just as I do. _

_Cullen._

John was torn between his pride being hurt and by the complete and utter relief of having two of his larger burdens lifted from his shoulders. He'd just have to find a way to pay Cullen back when this was all over. He opened the envelope and found it filled with the cash he'd put down on the rooms. He wanted to return it to the clerk but Cullen was right. They'd need the money for groceries and other incidentals. Who knew how long they'd be here. He couldn't imagine his boy would be well enough to move for at least a month. _Assuming he wakes up, _a small voice in the back of his head whispered. _No. My boy will wake up. He will._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam jerked awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping from the vivid nightmare, stirred memories, and the sudden pain from his injudicious movement. Slowly the dimly lit motel room registered and he remembered where he was: a suite in the Kokomo. _Off the Florida keys, there's a place called Kokomo, That's where you wanna go to get away from it all..._ The old Beach Boys tune flitted into his brain and he wondered briefly when he'd heard the song. Dean always called him a geekazoid for little things like that cropping up in his brain.

Sam threw back his covers and padded toward the bathroom. He paused and peeked in his father's room. He frowned. That wasn't his dad. The shape was wrong, the soft snore was wrong. Everything was wrong. He felt panic surge into him. Where was his dad? Sam's gaze shot around the suite. Dad's coat was gone but all the other stuff was there. He felt his breath rush out of him. It was just another hunter here to protect Dean.

A small part of him wished John was there to comfort him, to make him feel safe while at the same time he was glad he didn't have to face the man at the moment. Sam inhaled deeply, struggling to calm himself from both the sudden fear of his father being gone mixed with the terrors of his nightmares. He couldn't fall apart; he refused to fall apart. He had to be strong, for Dean when he woke up, if nothing else. It was what his brother always did for him, and was the least he could do for Dean. Especially since it was his fault Dean was hurt so badly. If only he had been smarter, faster, then the Dementors wouldn't have had the chance to… Sam shied away from the memories of seeing his big brother, his hero, tortured and raped mercilessly. Sam refused to acknowledge that he himself had been beaten and raped also as he buried those memories back down, deep in his subconscious.

Running his fingers through his hair, Sam gripped the brown locks tightly in his fists, using the pain as a focus point to help him calm down. After a few moments, the youth looked at the clock in the living room, noting it was 5:33 am. He'd only gotten a few hours of sleep and, even though he felt a bit calmer, Sam realized he wouldn't be falling back asleep any time soon. Briefly he wondered if he'd ever be able to sleep through the night again without the terrifying nightmares. Taking another deep cleansing breath, Sam went on into the bathroom. After finishing his business, he returned to his bedroom, scooping up his jeans from the end of the bed where he'd discarded them the night before. Donning the jeans, he then shrugged into a sweatshirt and quietly padded barefoot to the kitchen, intent on getting some apple juice. Preoccupied, Sam didn't notice the presence behind him until it spoke.

"Sam? You okay, kid?"

Sam whirled, kicking out at the man instinctively, determined not to allow himself be victimized again.

The man quickly blocked the kick with his forearm, backing away from the pre-teen, holding his hands out in front of himself in a placating manner. He spoke quickly, "Easy Sam, it's just me. It's Bobby."

Catching his balance as the man's words sunk in, Sam gaped at the grizzled hunter before him, slightly mortified that he'd struck out at the older man. "Uncle Bobby?" Sam gasped, eyes wide. Unaccustomed to sharing motel rooms with people other than his immediate family, Sam had forgotten that they were keeping the door open between to the two adjoining suites. With the newest hunter in his father's bed, that meant John had called in five hunters, all said and done. At least his father had finally taken the gang threat seriously. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean--"

"It's all right, kid," Bobby said with a wry chuckle. "Damn, you're about as fast as your old man."

Sam blushed, staring down at his toes in embarrassment. He shuffled slightly, unsure of what to say. The adrenalin rush left him as quickly as it had come, letting the soreness of his injured body make itself known to him.

Bobby studied the boy before him, his heart breaking a little at the obvious pain Sam was in, knowing all too well that it wasn't just his own pain that the youngster felt. The older hunter knew the Winchester brothers were extremely close and when one suffered, they both suffered. Having been privileged to be included in their rather eccentric family, Bobby loved the boys as the sons he would never be blessed with from his long dead wife, and ached to ease their hurt as much as John did. He reached out to lay a hand on Sam's shoulder, but stopped when the boy recoiled, fear flickering across his young features. John had warned him not to try to touch Sam and now Bobby understood why. Dropping his hand to his side, Bobby cleared his throat. "Sam, c'mon and sit down. I'll get you some doughnuts to eat before you take your medicine."

With a slight nod of agreement, Sam carefully sank into the wooden chair at the old beat up kitchenette table. He sat sideways in the chair, instinctively placing himself where he could keep the other hunter in view as well as the doorways.

Bobby strode quickly into the adjoining suite, returning a few moments later with a box of doughnuts in hand. He placed the box on the table in front of Sam, asking as he moved to the fridge, "What do you want to drink? Looks like there's some milk in here or apple juice."

"The juice is fine." Sam answered quietly, slightly uncomfortable with the older hunter serving him. "I can get it myself."

"Nonsense, kid, I'm up." Bobby pulled a small bottle of juice from the fridge and tore off a paper towel. He handed them both to Sam then picked up the medicine bottles from where they sat on the table in front of Sam. Pretending to examine the labels, he noted Sam's uncharacteristic meekness and the hunter struggled to remain impassive as he spoke, "Let's see…your Daddy said you were to take one of each of these when you got up as long as it was after 5:30, so here ya go." He placed two pills next to Sam's juice, adding, "You eat some first, then take those."

Sam nodded. "Where's Dad?" he asked, hating the slight quaver he heard in his voice.

Sitting down at the small table across from Sam, Bobby replied, "He just went down to the gym for a quick work out. He'll be back soon." Bobby watched the boy nibble half-heartedly at a doughnut. "You want me to get you something else to eat? I got one of those bear claw danishes yet."

"No, sir," Sam shook his head, "thanks. I'm…I'm not really hungry." Dropping the half eaten doughnut onto the paper towel, he picked up the juice, twisted the lid off and took a small sip. Surprisingly, it actually tasted good to him, so he snatched up the pills and swallowed them quickly with a couple more swigs of the juice.

Bobby scowled at Sam, "I told you to eat something with those."

Chewing on his lip, Sam met Bobby's eyes, silently pleading with the man.

As susceptible as everyone else to what Dean dubbed 'Sam's puppy dog eyes', Bobby caved with a sigh. "All right, I won't make you eat. But you get sick to your stomach, I don't wanna hear about it."

Sam nodded his gratitude then slowly drank the rest of his juice.

Quietly, Bobby asked, "You want to talk about all of this?" A curt headshake was the only response from the boy. "Sam, it's okay to be scared and worried. In fact, I'd be worried if you weren't."

Sam mumbled, "I'm okay."

Bobby wanted to keep trying to get Sam to talk to him, but was interrupted by Joshua who popped his head into the room, stating, "They're back. Two of them, by the fence."

Wincing as he saw Sam stiffen, Bobby snapped at the younger hunter, "All right, keep an eye on 'em. Let me know if they start moving in. And let me know when you see John coming back."

Joshua quirked an eyebrow at Bobby's gruffness, then noticed Sam sitting at the table and realized he had once again spoken carelessly. The battered boy suddenly looked very scared, sending a twinge of guilt through Joshua. The kid looked terrible with the deep bruises littering his face and Joshua really hadn't meant to make him feel worse. Without another word, Joshua slipped back to his post by the window in the other room.

"They've found us?" Sam's query was barely above a whisper.

Inwardly, Bobby cussed Joshua up one side and down the other for being so thoughtless. Forcing himself to speak calmly, he answered, "Possibly. Could just as easily be someone out walking their dog."

"You don't believe that."

"No," Bobby sighed. "Your family's luck is never that good."

Sam nodded in wholehearted agreement, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth momentarily.

"Sam," Bobby spoke earnestly, leaning towards the boy. He resisted the urge to pat him on the arm, remembering Sam's earlier reaction. Sam had always been such a physical child, craving hugs from everyone in their close knit circle that it broke the old man's heart to see the boy cringe now at being touched. "We're not gonna let them get to you. Understand?"

Another silent nod was Sam's only response. Sam knew that Bobby, and even Joshua if push came to shove, would do his best to protect him, but he couldn't help the niggling doubt in the back of his mind that anyone could stop that gang. Obviously even his father was worried about the gang, since the man had uncharacteristically called in the other hunters to help them. Sam couldn't remember any other time that John had been unable to handle a situation by himself when it came to his sons and that bothered Sam. The man was obnoxiously stubborn about them managing their own problems by themselves, having lectured both Sam and Dean many times about not calling in favors unless absolutely necessary, wanting the boys to stand on their own. It spoke volumes that John had called in reinforcements; five all said and done. Although, Sam thought bitterly, it was too little, too late since Dean was now lying in critical condition in a hospital.

Sam pulled himself from his thoughts, realizing suddenly that Bobby was staring at him intently. He offered the older man a small, tentative smile. "I'm ok, Bobby. Really." Trying to ignore the concern and pity in the man's blue eyes, Sam said, "Can I ask you something?" Bobby nodded. "Why did Dad call you guys? I mean, it's not like this is something supernatural and we don't hunt humans."

The question surprised Bobby. Did this boy really think they would only help with supernatural problems? "No, we don't hunt humans, but that don't mean we can't defend ourselves from them. And, son, family don't stop with blood. You boys, your daddy, you're family to me. And to Jim, Mackland and Caleb. Any time you need help, you come to one of us. We'll be there for you. Any time, Sam, no matter what the trouble is. Understand?"

Sam's breath caught, grateful tears springing to his eyes as he nodded in acknowledgement of Bobby's words. "Yeah, I know. Thanks for that. I get why Jonas is here since he's so close, but why's Josh here?"

Bobby chuckled, grinning at Sam, "I think he thinks he's gonna win some brownie points with Jim. And he'll probably rub Caleb's nose in it that he was here and Caleb wasn't."

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense." Sam agreed. "Who's the hunter in my dad's bed?"

"Boone Adams."

"I thought he retired from hunting," Sam said. He hadn't seen Boone in a couple of years. He liked the man. The old hunter had a tale for everything.

"Retired don't mean dead, boy. He came to help you and your daddy."

"Dad said Caleb and Mac are in Africa?"

"Yep. Lifestyles of the rich and famous," Bobby sneered with an eye roll.

That one actually made Sam giggle. He was really glad that Bobby was here. The older man had a knack of making him feel better and safer.

Pleased to see the boy relax some, Bobby added, "Cullen's getting in touch with them. I'm sure they'll be back soon."

"He shouldn't do that," Sam protested. "They shouldn't cut their trip short 'cause of this."

"Are you kidding me?" Bobby demanded, resisting the urge to cuff the kid up the side of the head. "What did I just tell you, boy? Family don't stop with blood. They'd be pretty pissed if we didn't let them know what's going on. Don't you think?"

"Yeah," Sam granted with a sigh, knowing Bobby was right. Staring down at the partially eaten doughnut on the table in front of him, he bit his lip, curiosity warring with shame as he asked, "What all did Dad tell you?"

The older hunter eyed the pre-teen for a moment, unsure exactly what the boy wanted. "Pretty much all of it I guess. At least everything that he knows." Not quite able to read in profile the look that crossed the boy's face, Bobby tried to reassure him, "I know he's mighty proud of you, Sam, for the way you handled yourself."

Sam's head snapped up at that, his eyes meeting Bobby's in surprise. "What?"

Before Bobby could answer, Joshua poked his head into the room once more to inform them, "John's on his way back."

"Okay, Joshua," Bobby replied distractedly, his attention still focused on the boy before him. He opened his mouth to continue, but Sam stopped him.

"I better finish getting dressed. Dad'll want to head over to the hospital and I don't want to get left behind." With that, Sam slipped from the chair and away from Bobby. Grabbing his duffle from his room he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door securely behind him.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_March 22, Deidersville, Illinois_

On the third day after his arrival at St. Agnes, Dean's eyelids slowly cracked open.

"Sam?" Dean rasped. He winced; it hurt to take a deep breath and his throat was sore like someone had taken a wire brush and run it around in there a few times. The swelling was still so bad around his left eye that he could barely see out of it. He simply laid there a minute, staring into the dimly lit room, trying to get his brain to work. He hurt like hell all over. Keeping his head still, he let his gaze drift, trying to piece together where he was and how he'd ended up here. He saw the cast on both his right leg and right arm and he felt the tight bandages around his chest. He thought he had other bandages on him but everything was a dull pain and his head felt foggy, his brain full of cotton. A soft but annoying beep made him slowly turn his head. Looking at the green squiggly lines and numbers on the black screen, his mind finally recognized the heart monitor. He realized abruptly that he had a nasal canula on and oxygen was blowing down his nose and into his throat. Considering how much his chest hurt, he decided it was probably a good thing.

_Hospital_, his mind finally supplied for him.

He frowned. How had he ended up in the hospital? For some reason Sammy had been worried about him. He recalled dropping Sammy off at school, but wasn't certain if that was an old or new memory. He drove to his own school and went to class. There was something, a danger of some sort. He remembered his apprehension. He remembered a girl--Isabelle. Juarez—something in him twisted at remembering the teenager whose nose he'd broken. Yeah, that's right, he'd broken Juarez's nose. If his face hadn't felt all swollen he'd have smiled at that. Why had he broken the teen's nose though? All he could be sure of was that Juarez had deserved that and more.

Caleb. Dean had talked with Caleb. Caleb was—somewhere else. Was going to bring him something. Dean paused in his thoughts, trying to find the right sequence of events but they all blurred together. Sammy had called him about…seeing if he was okay. He looked down at his broken limbs. Apparently, he wasn't. Maybe he'd wrecked his car? Had he been in a car accident? He didn't think so. Maybe he'd been on a hunt with his dad? No, that didn't feel right either. No, no, he was still in school. When school was in session he didn't get to do much hunting. School _was_ still in session, right? He sighed. He wasn't sure. It was just a big mixed up smear of memories.

A sound off to his left made him gingerly twist his head that way. He knew that sound. He just couldn't place it at the moment.

His father was asleep in the chair next to him, softly snoring. Snoring. Yeah. His dad snoring was the sound he'd recognized. Even in the pale shadows he could tell his father looked terrible. A couple days worth of beard colored John's jaw, his clothes were rumpled, and his face looked drawn and gaunt. Maybe they _had_ been on a hunt that went really bad.

"Dad?" Dean called softly, hardly able to get any sound out. "Dad?"

Stirring, John sat up suddenly, his eyes springing open. "Dean?" John said. Dean was awake. Dear God, his boy was awake. Relief washed over him like an ocean wave. Dr. Morton had said Dean would _probably_ wake up, but there was a very real chance he wouldn't. His injuries were horrendous and his concussion was bad. John leaned forward and took Dean's hand, reassuring himself that he wasn't just dreaming. "How do you feel, Dean?"

Dean inhaled sharply and the pain in his ribs lanced through him, making him gasp. He jerked his hand free of his father's grasp. He expected something…something bad but he wasn't sure what.

"Dean?" John asked worriedly.

Pulling in on himself as much as his injuries would allow, Dean waited for that something terrible to happen and he shut his eyes, just….waiting. He already hurt. He didn't think he could take anymore. He heard his own soft whimper.

"Son?" John asked, his voice edging toward frantic.

_Dad?_ Slowly Dean opened his eyes. His father was there. Nothing bad was going to happen. Not with his dad there. He sighed and let himself relax. Safe. He was safe from whatever…whatever _it_ was. Hunt, he decided. Some really fucked-up, went-so-bad-it-put-the-Winchester-luck-to-shame hunt. Something that beat him to hell and back and scared him so much he felt like he was still in danger. But not with his dad at his side. His dad had surely taken it out and Dean was safe from any retribution. Retribution? His brow furrowed. Why would some supernatural beast want retribution? Man, his head hurt. He blinked his eyes and found his father's worried face looking down on him. He managed the barest of smiles.

"'M okay. Thirsty," Dean said. His mouth felt like his brain. Full of cotton.

"Hang on, Son." John disappeared out the door.

"No!" Dean tried to cry, but it only came out as an unintelligible sound. His panic spiked. He didn't want to be left alone. The twilight room, the shadows, the solitude sent terror coursing through him. He wanted his father there. His father would keep him safe. If John wasn't there then—then it might all happen again. The beeping grew faster as Dean's breath began coming in small gasps.

His father returned to the room followed by a brunette dressed in hospital scrubs.

John saw his son's distress and rushed to his side. "Slow your breathing down. You're okay. I'm right here."

His breathing now rapid gulps of air, fear filled Den's eyes as he met his father's. John looked over at the nurse. "He hyperventilates sometimes when he's really upset." John moved around the bed to his son's unbroken hand. Dean's panicked gaze followed him. "Shh, shh, it's okay, Ace. Calm down,"

The nurse moved forward and gently removed the nasal canula from Dean's nose and then reached into a drawer and pulled out a paper bag that she shook open. Placing it over Dean's mouth and nose, she encouraged, "You're fine. Just breathe normally."

Contracting and expanding in rapid succession, the paper bag crinkled softly. John took his son's hand in his own, being careful of the IV in the back of Dean's hand. "You're okay. You're safe. I'm right here with you."

The beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor began to slow and the speed of the bag expanding and contracting reduced.

"That's my boy. Slow and easy." John's gaze was locked with that of his son's. The brunette turned the overhead light on in the room and after Dean's heartbeat and respirations had returned to approaching normal, took the bag from him. "You okay now?"

Suddenly feeling stupid and embarrassed, Dean nodded hesitantly. He was sure his face flushed red. God, he was acting like a five year old. He was…uh, sixteen? Oh, geez, he couldn't even remember his freaking age? What ever had whaled on him had outdone itself. Anyhow, it didn't matter. He was at least sixteen (he was certain of that) and he shouldn't be acting like he was afraid to be alone in the dark even if he did know what was in the dark. It wasn't here and it wasn't going to come after him. His father would make sure of that.

The nurse gave him a smile. "I'm Anne. Your dad says you're thirsty?"

Dean gave a slight nod.

She filled a cup with water and held it up to his mouth. "Okay, now drink a little and hold it in your mouth for a few minutes."

After pausing to smell the drink, he greedily accepted the cool liquid, forcing himself to do as she instructed rather than just swallowing it down. His whole mouth burned and the water felt so good on it. He finally swallowed.

"Okay, just one more sip. We can't have you getting nauseous. I'll bring you some ice to suck on and that should help."

Gratefully Dean took another drink and did the same as before. He was still thirsty, but he knew she was right. The last thing he wanted was to puke. The ice sounded good. It would probably ease the burning in his mouth. What had happened to him anyhow? Was it a bad hunt? He frowned to himself. Hadn't he already contemplated that question? Hadn't he already answered that question? Or had his dad already told him what happened? One of the nurses maybe told him? Regardless, he didn't remember the answer and frustration nipped at him.

Checking his vitals and IV, she looked up to see him watching her almost warily. She smiled her friendliest smile. "Since you're awake, you'll be out of ICU and in a regular room in no time at all. If you're feeling confused, that's normal. You're getting high doses of painkillers." She put the nasal canula back in place on him.

"Am" he whispered. God, it hurt to talk.

She gave him another smile. "If you need anything, here's the call button." She held it up for him to see and put it beside his hand. "And here's the TV remote." She showed him that as well and placed it beside the call button. Her gaze drifted between the two Winchesters. "I don't imagine you'll stay awake very long today. Call me if you need anything. I'll go get that ice."

After she left, Dean looked over at his father. "Sammy?" Dean whispered. If he had been in a car accident, it was highly likely Sammy had been with him. Had they told him he was in a car accident?

"Sam's fine. He's at a nearby motel, eating dinner." John looked at his watch. "They ought to be getting back anytime now."

"Wha'…happ'n'd?" Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper at this point. He hoped his words were clear enough for his father to understand. His swollen face didn't help his enunciation.

Relief colored John's face. "You don't remember?"

Dean shook his head fractionally then winced. Someone apparently just planted a knife into his skull. Concussion, he realized. No wonder nothing was making sense. "Car acc'dent? Hunt?"

Squeezing Dean's hand gently, John could only hope his son wouldn't remember any of it. He hedged in his answer. "You got…into a bit of trouble. Sammy called Jim and they brought you here. I got in three nights ago."

_Trouble?_ Dean thought. Well, that was certainly vague.

"What…happ'n'd?" Dean whispered, more insistent.

John debated, not sure how much to tell his son. "I don't know all the details. You got jumped and had the crap beat out of you."

From the look in his father's eyes, Dean could see John knew more than he was saying. He wished he could remember but he hurt so badly all over, he supposed at the moment it didn't matter. He had so many drugs in him, he wasn't sure it would make much sense to him anyhow. His mind flashed vaguely to someone injecting him with drugs. Maybe when he first got to the hospital? No, it felt…wrong. These were drugs he didn't want to take. Drugs that were bad.

"Drugs. Didn't want," Dean whispered, suddenly, desperately wanting his father to believe him. He didn't want his dad to ever think he'd do anything like that. He'd never do anything hardcore, definitely nothing beyond the occasional cigarette or a hit of marijuana now and then.

"You need the drugs, Dean," John said, seeing Dean cringe and pull away from his father. His son was trembling and silent. He told himself it was the painkillers simply confusing Dean. "You need these drugs. They're safe. You're safe. I promise."

Finally relaxing, Dean's gaze slowly swept the room and found his father once again but uncertainty filled him. Drugs, bad drugs. He hung on to that thought. His dad, he needed to convince his dad. "Drugs. No' now. 'Fore."

Realization dawned for John. Dean remembered a little of what happened. He felt this heart skip a beat. No! He didn't want Dean to remember any of it. He wanted to wrap his boy in his arms and protect him from the truth of the brutal hours spent at the Dementors hands. He wished a bag of salt and a few protective runes could keep out the horrible memories the way they kept out monsters.

"I know that," John said, finding a smile his son. "I taught you better than that. They were forced on you. It wasn't your choice. Okay?"

After a moment, his father's words sunk in. His father believed him. Dean gave fraction of a nod, glad his father had that sort of trust in him. "'Kay. Sammy?" he asked again as he looked around. He should be worried about Sammy. Something happened. Something bad.

"He'll be here soon. He's fine. I promise," John reassured him. Dean wasn't remembering their conversation from just a minute ago. Maybe he wouldn't remember anything else. Maybe it would just disappear from his mind. Even knowing it was a false hope John clung to it anyhow.

Dean looked as though he were struggling with his thoughts.

"What's wrong, Ace?"

Dean didn't answer immediately. Finally, he asked hopefully, "Ice?"

"Anne's getting it. She'll be back anytime now." Seeing Dean's confusion, John added, "She's the nurse."

Anne… nurse. She was the nurse, he vaguely recalled. "Brun'tte. Pretty."

Carrying a cup of ice, Anne returned. "Guess who I found?" she said with a grin. Pastor Jim and Sam walked into the room. Sam's face lit up.

"Dean!" Sam cried happily, relieved to see his brother awake. The doctors had tried to be reassuring. His Dad and Pastor Jim had tried to reassure him. But he still feared he'd been too late and Dean might never wake up because he didn't let the paramedics take Dean from the warehouse. That he waited too long and his big brother was going to pay the price for his failure. He felt all his fear dissipate in an instant as he rushed to his brother's side.

Dean cringed back but when his confused gaze focused and he saw Sam standing there, a faint smile came to his face. "Sammy," Dean whispered and all the tension seemed to drain from him. His brother was okay.

John stepped back a little so Sam could slip between him and Dean. Sliding his hand under Dean's, Sam squeezed it ever so gently. "They weren't sure you—" Sam began, fighting back his tears and failing. "You might not wake up they said. Ever."

Sam felt his father's hand on his shoulder and barely flinched at the man's touch. He was too happy that Dean was awake to let the terrible memories in. Wanting the comforting touch of the two people he cared most about, Sam leaned back into his father's warm body just a little.

"'M …'wake," Dean told him. He tried to lift his hand to wipe at Sammy's tears but could barely get his arm to move. It hurt so much he gave up the effort. "'M… 'kay."

"No you aren't," Sam said as the tears dribbled down his face. "But you will be. You'll be fine really soon."

"You? Hurt?" Dean asked, his words mere mumbles. It was getting harder and harder to speak, and harder and harder to stay awake. Before he'd let himself fall asleep he had to know; he had to be certain.

Sammy gave his big brother a smile. "Nah, I'm fine."

"Sure?" A doubt at the edges of his mind told him Sam wasn't okay. That something horrible had happened to him. Like had happened to him. Maybe even worse than what happened to him. Studying his little brother, he decided the shadows he saw on Sam's face weren't shadows; they were bruises.

Sam nodded and wiped away his tears. "Really. I'm fine," Sam insisted. Dean could never know any different.

"Bruised," Dean said and managed to move a finger indicating Sam's face. His heartbeat jumped a little in speed. "Not…okay."

Wincing inwardly, Sam scrambled for a lie. "I ran into Stephen. It's nothing. He got in a few good punches, but I got him back, just like you taught me."

Dean scowled, his eyes filled with doubt. A memory crept into his lethargic, drugged brain. "Told you… you could take 'im," Dean managed with an effort. He tried to smile at Sam. He didn't really remember who Stephen was, but he knew Sammy and Stephen had gotten into it a few times. At school, Dean thought. Maybe.

Looking over at where the nurse had been, he discovered she was gone. He saw the cup of ice sitting on the tray. His eyes drifted to Pastor Jim who still stood close to the doorway, giving the family reunion some room.

"Hi," Dean whispered at him.

Smiling back at him, Jim stepped closer. "Hello, Dean. I'm glad to see—" The pastor's eyes shot to the heart monitor when Dean's heartbeat sped up and he saw Dean jerk and tense.

"It's okay," Sammy soothed, "It's okay. You're safe here." Sam hadn't told them—how could he forget!—that the Dementors had made Dean scared of his own name. Maybe he'd hoped Dean would be fine when he woke up, that he wouldn't be afraid of his name anymore. He shuddered, hating that he was going to have to tell his father about that, too.

Dean's eyes came back to meet his brother's. Bewilderment was etched on his swollen face. His gaze went to his father and then Pastor Jim. He gave a small nod and his heartbeat slowed down. "Ice?" he begged.

Stepping over to the tray, Jim said, "I've got it." He pulled out a piece of ice with the spoon and offered it to Dean. Dean opened his mouth and took it gratefully. He sighed as the ice soothed his mouth and his throat. He gave Jim a look of thanks.

"You're welcome," Jim said and laid a light hand on Dean's casted arm. Dean managed a flicker of a smile. He cautiously crunched the ice and let the melting water slowly run down his aching throat. As soon as it was gone, he squeezed Sam's hand before he shut his eyes and drifted back to sleep, feeling safe in the presence of his family.


	20. Chapter 20

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

**For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 20**

_I'm drowning  
__Come hold me  
__Please wake me up  
__I don't wanna know if I'm not dreaming  
__I don't wanna face my fears...  
__Alone!_

_What if I'm not dreaming?_

_--If I'm not dreaming, Ana Johnson_

**Then:  
**_March 22, Deidersville, Illinois_

John squeezed Sam's shoulder as Dean drifted off to sleep. He knew they were still in for a long recovery period, but at least he now believed his son _would_ recover. The longer Dean had remained comatose, the grimmer John's thoughts had become regarding his boy's chance of surviving, but now, hope finally took a foothold. He smiled reassuringly at Sam when he noticed his younger son watching him then motioned with his head towards the chairs next to the bed, a silent order for Sam to sit. To his mild astonishment, Sam slid obediently into one of the chairs after scooting it close enough to the bed so that he could keep a hand on Dean's arm. John turned to Jim, pulling the pastor with him as he stepped back from Dean's bed towards the door.

"Thanks, Jim," John said softly, "for looking after Sam. Why don't you take a break? Sammy and I are going to stay here for a while."

"Bobby and I are headed back to the motel. It's Boone's shift. He's out in the waiting room with your dinner. Don't forget you need to eat, too. Let us know if you need anything."

"I think we'll be okay now."

The pastor gave his friend a little smile then left the small family to themselves.

Once Jim left, John stepped over to the chair next to Sam's and wearily sank into it with a heavy sigh. He reached out to grasp Sam's arm, trying to offer some comfort, and winced when the boy jerked away from his touch.

Sam inhaled sharply as he jumped, startled by the touch on his arm then looked up sheepishly at his father. "Sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay, Sammy."

Father and son settled into companionable silence as they watched Dean sleep.

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek as guilt ate away at him. Dean was afraid of his own name, and Sam had to tell their dad. How could he have been so self centered that he'd forgotten to tell his dad that crucial piece of information? His dad would have every right to be pissed at him…again. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam studied John's profile, noticing how tired his father appeared. He really didn't want to add to the man's burden, but John needed to know. Taking a deep breath, Sam spoke quietly, "Hey Dad."

"Yeah, Sammy," John answered equally softly as he turned slightly towards his youngest.

"Dean's afraid of his name," Sam blurted out.

Puzzlement narrowed John's dark eyes. "What do you mean?"

Sam licked his lips nervously, then answered, "They…they made him afraid of his name. They would say his name, then hurt him really, really bad. I…I'd figured it out when I helped him out of the warehouse, but I thought he'd be better by now."

"Damn it." John growled. He had heard of that torture technique during his stint in the Marines, had even known a man who'd been a victim of it in Vietnam. The man ended up going by his middle name and his mother's maiden name, to avoid the terror associated with his given first and last name. John had a hard time grasping that these street thugs were so well versed in torture. It was nearly incomprehensible that a bunch of teenagers could be so cruel. John mentally berated himself once more for leaving his sons in such danger.

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered, unable to look at his father and bear the disappointment he knew he would find.

That pain filled whisper snapped John's attention back to his youngest son. He reached out to gently grip the back of Sam's neck, ignoring the flinch that went through the boy. "For what?"

"Everything," Sam moaned. "For not getting Dean out sooner. For not letting the paramedics take him. For not telling you he was afraid of his name."

"Ah, Sammy," John pulled Sam to him, hugging the boy close. "It's not your fault, son." He could feel Sam trembling and gently rubbed his hand up and down the boy's arm. "We'll help Dean get through this. I promise, he's gonna be okay. It's just gonna take some time."

Sam nodded against his father's shoulder, wanting so much to believe him but unable to ignore the doubts screaming in his head. His father hadn't been there, hadn't seen what those bastards did to Dean, so maybe he could think that Dean was just going to 'get over it', but Sam couldn't see how Dean could do that. He wasn't sure that he himself was going to ever get over what he'd seen and what had been done to him. But at that moment, Sam truly wanted to believe his father and that everything would be all right eventually. Slowly he relaxed in his father's arms, relishing the rare moment of comfort and safety.

John rested his cheek on the top of Sammy's head as he felt the boy calm down, quietly praying for the strength to see his boys through this mess.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_March 24, Deidersville, Illinois_

Slowly, Dean opened his eyes to a room awash in pale shadows. Based on the voices and noises he heard, he slowly pieced together he was in a hospital. He looked around but the room was empty. The beep of the heart monitor steadily grew in speed as Dean felt the panic begin to swell in him. Where was his father? Where was Sam? Were they alive or dead? His right arm was casted from his fingertips nearly to his shoulder and his right leg was casted and elevated in a sling. With every breath he took, his chest ached. His mouth felt blistered, his throat raw, and his face felt as swollen as a birthday balloon. He was hurt so badly, they must be, too. He had to find his family. He had to make sure they were okay. Especially Sammy. He was supposed to protect and look after Sam. Where was Sam? Sammy was hurt. He just knew it.

He extracted the IV from the back of his hand with his teeth and spit it aside. Dean studied the cables for the sling elevating his leg. After figuring out how the mechanism worked, he took hold of the handle and slowly released the tension until his leg was flat on the bed. Throwing back the sheets he found he was only robed in a thin cotton hospital gown. Wires sprouted from one sleeve and the neckline, running over to the equipment monitoring him. He'd have to take them off but first he wanted out of bed and on his feet.

After a minute of fighting with the metal bed railing, he finally got it lowered. His breath was beginning to come in gasps. Every movement was agony as he pulled himself to the edge of the bed. _Suck it up_, he heard his father's voice tell him. He got his leg pulled mostly out of the sling and hoped it was enough that the leg wouldn't get caught. Putting his good leg over the edge he found he couldn't touch the floor. It didn't matter if he fell. He'd crawl where ever he had to, to make sure his family was okay. Levering himself to a sitting position, pain racked his body. Tears slipped from his eyes as he desperately tried to push the pain back, sitting there for a moment and letting the worst of the waves pass through him. For his family, he'd endure anything. Blinking through his tears he nudged himself to the edge of the bed. He pushed himself out of the bed but his good leg didn't hold his weight and twisted under him. He fell out of the bed, tearing down the cables that had supported his broken leg, snapping free several of the leads to the heart monitor, and ripping free the nasal canula. He thought his head was going to explode and thought maybe if it did, it would feel better. His vision tunneled as the pain rippled through him and a cry of pain escaped him. He lay on the floor, gasping. _Can't give up. Gotta move,_ he told himself. Doggedly, he began to push himself up when three people rushed into the room.

Nurse Anne Zeilik was stunned at the sight. The Winchester boy was out of his bed, lying on the floor and pushing himself up as he tried to crawl forward. Tubing and cables hung from the bed like octopi tentacles. IV fluid dribbled onto the floor. She saw his catheter bag near him on the floor and was grateful he hadn't added to his injuries by pulling the catheter out. Tears streamed down his face and the teen didn't seem to see them.

"Take care of him," Anne told Nurse Sidon and Nurse Lester. "I'll get his father," Anne told them. John Winchester had stepped out a few minutes ago to stretch his legs while he made a phone call. The younger brother would be returning from lunch anytime now, likely with his Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim. She hoped Mr. Winchester was within easy shouting distance but really didn't expect him to be any further than the ICU waiting room.

"Mr. Winchester," Nurse Sidon said to Dean. "You need to lie still and let us help you."

"My family. Where are they?" Dean snarled, ignoring the rawness of his throat. The pain of his injuries clouded his mind even more than the drugs. All he could focus on was finding his family. Whoever was talking to him had to know where John and Sam were.

"They're fine," she reassured him. "Anne's getting your father now. He'll be here any minute."

No, she was lying. His father was hurt. That's why his dad wasn't here. His dad would never leave him. He'd be with him. His Dad had to be hurt!

"Where are they?" Dean shouted and slammed his casted arm into her chest, trying to knock her away from him. Her hand went to her chest as she fell back, shock on her face. The explosion of pain in his arm brought a scream of pain to his lips and his good arm gave. _Oh God it hurts. It hurts. No, gotta stay awake. Gotta find 'em, _he thought as he clung stubbornly to consciousness. He needed to get on his feet. On his feet he could move better, faster. Find them. Make sure they were safe. Make sure they were even alive. He fought that fear as strongly as he fought the pain that threatened to take him back to unconsciousness.

Grabbing hold of the bed's frame, he tried to pull himself up but his ribs shifted with the exertion and he released the metal rail with an agonized cry. He fell back to the floor in a heap, his good arm wrapping around his ribcage. "Dad! Sam!" he cried softly, certain they were in trouble. He struggled to rise again.

"Dean! Calm down," Nurse Lester ordered. "Your family is okay."

Terror transformed his features from the determined, angry teenager to a trembling, frightened boy in an instant. _No! Please, no!_ Dean whimpered and curled in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut, waiting fearfully for the blows he was certain would come. He shifted his broken arm close in what he knew was a vain attempt to protect it from more injury. He lay on the floor shaking, struggling to take in breaths, his pain compounded by his fear.

The nurse stared at the teen, startled by his severe reaction. Forcing herself to snap out of her surprise she rose to her feet to get and oxygen mask hooked up and to him. As she was ripping open the package with the oxygen mask and tubing, John Winchester pounded into the room, Anne on his heels.

"Dean!" John cried, shocked to find his son out of bed curled into the fetal position on the floor. The cast on Dean's arm was clearly broken along the forearm, the most injured part of Dean's arm. Tears glistened on Dean's pale cheeks, spilling from his tightly closed eyes and gasped for breath.

"It's okay, Son. I'm here. I'm here," John soothed, trying to remember that he couldn't use Dean's name. Kneeling beside his trembling son, John lightly touched Dean's shoulder. Dean jerked away from his touch, whimpering and begging "no".

"It's Dad," John said softly, hoping to get through to his terrified son. "It's Dad. You're safe, Ace. C'mon Ace, you hear me? I'm here, kiddo. I'm right here."

Opening his eyes, Dean looked up to see his father. "Dad!" he cried and reached his good arm toward John.

The look in Dean's eyes nearly broke John's heart, those green eyes dulled by drugs but fear, pain and confusion showed in his very soul. John embraced his son carefully, fearing he might hurt Dean more.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay," John reassured his boy, praying those words would prove to be true. _How in hell had Dean gotten out of bed?_ Anne took the mask from Nurse Lester as Lester connected it to the room's oxygen supply. Working around John, Anne got the mask slipped onto Dean's face. Dean jerked back, gasping again.

"It's an oxygen mask, Ace. It's okay. You need it."

"Sammy? Where's Sammy?" Dean mumbled into his father's shoulder as he sobbed.

"Sammy's okay. He's fine. He's just outside, in the waiting room."

"Really?" Dean asked, still clutching his father close. "You swear?"

It took John a moment to sort out Dean's muffled words. "Yes. I'll bring him in in a minute. But we have to get you back into bed. You're hurt bad."

Dean nodded. His father was okay. His brother was okay. Secure in that knowledge, Dean let the pain sweep him into unconsciousness.

"Dean? Dean!" his father shouted, panicked as his son sagged in his arms. "No! Dean, wake up. Dean!"

John lifted his son back into bed with hardly an effort. Checking Dean's throat for a pulse, the fear clutching at him finally let go when he felt the rapid beat underneath his fingers. He could see Dean was breathing, his breath fogging the oxygen mask, further easing John's concern. Staggering back, Anne guided him to a chair where he collapsed into it. He thought he'd surely lost his son and put his face in his hands. Anne gave his shoulder a brief squeeze.

Feeling Anne's gentle squeeze, he looked up to see her join the nurses and doctor as they worked around Dean, starting a new IV, getting the leads reconnected to the monitors, and checking him for new injuries. John saw one nurse tend to the nurse Dean had hit. Barbara Sidon if he remembered correctly. She still held a hand over her sternum, her face pinched in pain. The doctor, Carter was his name John thought, ordered an x-ray machine while he felt Dean's abdomen for tension. After listening to Dean's heart and lungs, he seemed to relax and looked over at John.

"You shouldn't have moved him. He could have hurt his spine when he fell out of the bed," the older doctor scolded John.

John nodded mutely.

Dr. Carter returned to the teen's side, giving the boy a final look. How the so severely injured teen had managed to get even as far as he had was phenomenal. The boy had cracked his arm cast and he suspected Nurse Sidon had, at the least, a bruised sternum from where the teen had struck her. He fervently hoped the boy hadn't done additional damage to his already horrendously injured arm and hand. The boy's thigh was only cracked, not fully broken, but it was badly cracked. They'd casted it, concerned stress on it might worsen the fractures and create a complete break. They wanted some of the worst fractures to heal before he put weight on it. The fall from bed probably hadn't further damaged the femur since it _was_ casted, but he'd have it x-rayed again to confirm that suspicion. The doctor looked over the teen's chart. He made a few quick notes with a shake of his head. With spirit and strength like this, he had no doubt the boy would pull through and recover. His gaze shifted to John.

"He seems to be fine," the doctor reassured the worried father. "I'll be back after I see the x-rays and then I'll recheck him." With a slight smile, he added. "Quite a strong boy you've got there."

"Yes. He is," John said. After taking a few deep breaths to compose himself, John rose, knowing he needed to get Sam. He'd just stepped out for a minute to call Cullen and discovered Sam had arrived. He was filling Sam in when Anne rushed out to find him. Hurrying after her, he'd left Sam outside, probably in full blown panic. Bobby and Jim were with him, and with merely a look he'd conveyed to them to keep Sam outside until he knew what was happening. As John started through the doors that led to the waiting room, Sam broke away from Jim's side and tried to rush through the door. Anticipating his boy's attempt to dart inside at first opportunity, John snagged Sam's arm. "Easy there, Dude. Dean's fine."

Tears flowed freely down Sam's face. "I want to see him!" he cried.

After giving Jim and Bobby a reassuring nod, John gently pulled his son a few steps inside the ICU so the doors could shut. John crouched in front of Sam.

"Calm down. You have to be quiet in here. I know you're worried, but he's fine. Really. Just calm down."

John guided Sam to Dean's room. "See?" John said softly. "He tried to get out of bed. I think he was afraid we were hurt and was trying to find us." Considering for a few moments he gave a nod to himself. The idea was a good one. "We need to let him know we're okay. He panics when he first wakes up if you or I aren't beside him. The first words out of his mouth are always asking for you, making certain you're okay. I think we need to make him some get well cards that he can see right away and maybe the doctors will let you write or draw on his casts. We'll get some paper and some markers tonight, okay? I think that would help. That way he'll know right away we're okay."

"I could stay here more," Sam said, staring at his brother and hating how pale he looked. The nasal canula was gone, replaced by an oxygen mask. If Dean was okay, how come he was on more oxygen?

"Thirteen hours a day is quite enough. You're still healing up too, Sam. You need your rest. When you're not here we can show him the cards and the letters and he'll know you're fine." John smiled at his youngest.

An unhappy pout on his face, Sam nodded reluctantly. He pulled away from his dad and went over to Dean's side. Taking Dean's hand, he leaned in and whispered. "It's Sammy. I'm okay, Brother. I going to make you get well cards and write funny stuff on your casts. Someone is always here with you or out in the waiting room, keeping watch. Keeping you safe. You'll be okay soon. I miss you."

Dean stirred and slowly opened his eyes. "Sammy?" he asked hoarsely.

Sam beamed at his brother. "Hey, stupid. You're not supposed to get out of bed yet."

Furrowing his brow, Dean only vaguely recalling lying on the floor and trying to get up, trying to find his family. His casted leg was propped up on pillows and the pulley system above it was in shambles. His right arm was excruciating and he squeezed his eyes against the pain. He didn't like the oxygen mask but was too tired to try to get it off.

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly.

The heart monitor echoed Dean's suddenly racing heart and Dean jerked back, tensing, waiting, a cry on his lips as the movement jarred him.

_Crap, crap, crap!_ Sam cursed silently. "Brother, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…you're going to be okay. Really."

Stepping closer to Sam, John said, "Maybe you ought to try calling him Ace."

Sam craned his neck to look up at his father. "But that's your name for him. Doesn't feel like—it doesn't feel right, me calling him that."

"Deuce?" John suggested, offering up the nickname Dean's best friend Caleb called Dean.

Sam shook his head again. The only real nicknames he had for his brother were things like jerk and dickhead. Not exactly names he wanted to use now. He'd called him De when he was really little, but that was too close to Dean. He'd come up with something, he just didn't know what yet. For now, he'd stick with something he was comfortable with. Turning back to Dean, Sam asked softly, "Big brother?"

Dean forced himself to open his eyes. His gaze darted around the room, confused.

"You're safe," Sam reassured him.

"Sammy?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. You tried to get out of bed, idiot. Are you okay?"

His heart rate beginning to slow back down, Dean gave Sammy what he hoped was a smile. "I'm fine, Runt. My arm. It hurts a lot," he mumbled through the mask. His ribs really hurt too and he decided he was glad for the oxygen mask even if it annoyed him. He didn't have to work so hard to feel like he was getting enough air.

Looking over at the casted arm, Sam saw the cast was badly cracked. "I guess you hurt it trying to get out of bed. They'll fix it. It'll stop hurting soon."

Dean nodded a little. Everything hurt so very badly. Seeing his father, he said, "Dad?"

"I'm here. I'm sorry, Ace. I just stepped out for a minute," John said. Jesus, he was going to have to make sure Dean wasn't left alone or was sedated enough there wasn't a chance of him waking up when no one was with him. His son was so hurt, another stunt like this and he could injure himself worse.

Comforted by the knowledge his family was safe, Dean exhaled gently and relaxed, falling back asleep.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_March 26, Deidersville, Illinois_

John stood between the police officers and the door that led to ICU.

"You are not speaking with him," John said firmly. "At least not yet."

"Mr. Winchester," Gretchen said. "We really need for him to tell us what happened. We need to speak with him."

Both she and Jason had been surprised to hear the Winchester teen had survived. After reading the doctor's report on his condition upon arrival, they had written the teen off as another casualty of the Dementors. She was stunned when she called the hospital and learned Dean had woken. After everything the younger Winchester had told them, they now had high hopes that they'd finally caught a break. If they could put away Juarez and his top cronies, maybe they could loosen the grip the Dementors had in this part of town. If the teen had seen the Chavez girl murdered, at least one if not more of the Dementors would go away for a long time. It would still be a difficult prosecution because the Dementors had enough tricks up their sleeves to make a magician jealous. Perhaps with the older boy's cooperation, the younger brother would stand with him in the courtroom. With Dean's testimony there was a chance they could rally others to come forward against the gang.

Glaring at the officers, John exhaled slowly, attempting to rein in his anger. Even so, his words came out gnashed. "Dean doesn't remember anything. He wakes up for a few minutes, asks the same questions every time: where is Sam and what happened. He can't tell you anything yet. I won't have you disturbing him right now." _And I don't want him to remember if he doesn't have to, _John thought protectively. He'd let them speak with Sam, had made Sam speak with them. He wouldn't do that to Dean, especially not when Dean was still so confused.

"If he doesn't remember anything, then we won't take but a minute of his time," Jason reasoned. "Please Mr. Winchester. It's very important that we at least try."

John's eyes narrowed. He would have to prove it to them or they would be here every day, or worse. Dean and Sam had enough scars that he had dealt with social services more often than he'd have liked. A part of him appreciated the fact that outsiders were concerned enough about his boys to make certain they weren't being abused, but when his boys had been taken from him when they were younger by those same concerned people he'd lost that appreciation. Police attention in any form was equally dangerous if they dug too deeply into his background.

"Fine," John relented and glanced at his watch. He knew the police could potentially push the issue, though it might take them a few days to do it. They were trying to do their job, trying to put the bastards who'd done this behind bars and John wanted them to succeed. Right now, though, he knew Dean wouldn't be able to tell them anything, and even if he could, it would be questionable because of all the drugs he was on. "He'll probably be awake soon. He usually wakes up around one or one-thirty for a short time. Why don't you come inside and wait with me so you don't think that I've coached him," John said sarcastically.

Gretchen and Jason passed a look. Gretchen gave him a smile. "Of course, Mr. Winchester."

John hit the buzzer and the nurse let him in. When Nurse Lester saw the look on John's face and that two people were following him in, she stepped out from behind the desk. She knew they were police officers; she was the one who'd gotten John when they asked to see him. "Mr. Winchester, would you like me to get a doctor to confirm these officers are not jeopardizing your son's health?"

Appreciating her offer to delay the police, John smiled gratefully. "Thanks Daneda, but they need to see for themselves that Dean doesn't remember anything."

She eyed the officers. "You cause that boy any upset and I'll kick you both out of here so fast you won't know what hit you. He's still in very serious condition." She planted her hands on her hips. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jason said. Glancing at Gretchen, he could see her assessment was the same. The nurse might be petite, but Jason would bet a week's pay that woman would physically drag them both out by their shirt collars if they caused any problems.

The officers scanned the room when they entered it, the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the oxygen flowing through the canula the only background noises in the room. A stack of get well cards sat on a table and Dean's casts were covered with smiley faces sticking their tongues out, drawings of cars and dogs, and words or sayings obviously written by a handful of different people. The arm cast had significantly less artwork and signatures than his leg cast. Gretchen walked over to the stack of cards, glancing at the father for permission to look at them.

Nodding to her, John explained, "Sammy and I made them. If we're both not here when he wakes up, he panics, convinced that we're hurt."

Gretchen picked up a few and they were just the sort of homemade get well cards a little brother might give to an older brother.

_Hah! I get all the Lucky Charms! But I'm saving all the prizes for you 'cause I'm such an awesome brother._

_Everyday you're sick means I get to add one more day to my right to ride shotgun. You don't get better soon and you won't get to ride shotgun again until you're fifty!_

_I'm eating all your strawberries!_

_Stop being lazy, Jerk._

_I'm stuck eating Dad's cooking! Augh!_

Gretchen smiled at the cards. "How is Sam doing?" she asked.

"He's doing okay. Once Ace is out of ICU, I think we'll all feel better." John stood beside Dean and gently ran his fingers through Dean's hair, giving a heavy sigh. His boy's face was still a bit swollen in places and the bruising was just beginning to hint at fading. The blisters on his lips were healing up and when he spoke his voice wasn't nearly as hoarse.

"Mr. Winchester," Jason said, "I know you must feel like we're invading—"

"I understand why you're here, but," he looked up to meet the man's gaze, "don't you think if Dean remembered anything, I would have him tell you? I made Sammy tell you everything, even though it practically tore my boy apart."

John's attention snapped back to his eldest son when Dean mumbled in his sleep and began to jerk and twitch. Taking Dean's hand, John cursed under his breath. It was early for Dean to be waking which meant the nightmares had eaten their way through the drugs in Dean's system. When Dean woke up slowly he generally stayed awake for about a half hour or so. Waking up violently meant he'd be confused and upset and wouldn't stay awake long. Sam wasn't back from lunch yet and missing his brother's waking minutes wouldn't make him happy either.

"It's okay, you're okay. I'm here. You're safe," John said softly. He laid his palm on Dean's chest.

Dean's eyes flew open and he tried to sit up, "Sammy!" Dean shouted. John's hand kept him from the sharp movement.

"It's okay. You're safe," his father soothed and slowly raised the head of Dean's bed a little.

"Sammy? Where's Sammy?" Dean asked, panic in his eyes.

"He's fine, son. He's drawn on your casts," John pointed to some of the drawings on Dean's arm cast, then picked up a get well card from the top of the stack and showed it to Dean. "And made you cards. See? He'll be here soon. I made him go down to the cafeteria to get something to eat."

Dean's gaze went to his cast and then with his good hand took the card from his father. He smiled with relief. "You're okay, too?" he asked. His voice was less of a whisper than it had been the past few days. He set the card on his chest to keep it close. His brother was okay. His dreams told him otherwise, but those were surely just dreams.

"I'm fine," John said.

"What happened?" Dean asked, looking down at his broken limbs. He felt he should know, that he should remember, that his father had told him, but he couldn't recall anything.

"Car accident? Bad hunt?" Dean asked, trying to dig the details out of his memory. Nothing was there. Nothing at all.

"You ran into some trouble," John said simply.

"I got my ass kicked?" Dean said, trying to find a smirk but he couldn't dredge one up. He just hurt too damned much.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Tell me it was at least more than a couple guys who did this to me," Dean moaned.

Not trusting himself to speak, John merely nodded.

Seeing his father's reluctance to answer, Dean's stomach clenched. Something really bad had happened. _No shit Sherlock,_ he thought. _I'm in ICU I think, I probably have the mother lode of painkillers in me, and I still hurt like hell. I don't think I'm really ready to find out what yet. Dad's okay. Sammy's okay. I don't need to know anything else._

"So is my car okay at least?" Dean asked.

It was the first time Dean had asked that question and the concern for his car made John give his son a smile. "Yeah, it's fine. It's running like a dream," he lied. Well, he supposed technically it was fine if you ignored the gang's graffiti on it. He hated looking at it every morning and every night coming to and from the hospital. Bobby was going to take it to get it repainted in a few days. Not soon enough as far as John was concerned.

"She's a rust bucket," Dean murmured. He scowled as a memory tried to creep into his head. "The tires…something happened to the tires?"

John frowned to himself. Dean was remembering more bits and pieces each time. "Yes. A couple flats. Bobby brought some tires for it. You're baby is fine and waiting for you."

A feeling nagged at him. Because of the car, he'd ended up where he was. He was almost sure of it. "It wasn't a car accident, right?"

"No. Ace, a few people want to talk to you." John stepped aside so Dean could see the police officers.

A variety of emotions slipped across Dean's features. Looking between the two officers, his gaze lingered on the woman before returning to his father. "She's not really your type, Dad."

John's previous smile broadened. Dean was slowly becoming more like himself. Maybe he'd come through this okay. "You think you're funny, don't you?" John said.

"Learned from the best." Dean gave a faint smile in response to his father's. "Caleb."

Laughing, John squeezed Dean's hand once before letting it go. "I can't argue that point." John sobered. "They need to ask you a few questions. I'll be right outside the door, okay?"

Dean's smile faded as he swallowed hard and gave a nod, inexplicable fear swelling in him. He felt five again with a desperate need to have his father close. He was seventeen, for God's sake. Didn't matter, he realized. He wanted--no, he _needed_ John nearby. "O-Okay. But leave the door open so I can see you."

"I'll make sure you can see me." John paused by the officers as he headed for the doorway and whispered softly, "Don't say his name. They," John's breath hitched. He shut his eyes and forced himself to say what he had to. "They conditioned him. Say it and he panics." Each officer nodded in turn. John stopped in the doorway and turned to face his son. His boy looked so pale and scared, it made John's heart ache.

Dean stared at the two officers. His head felt all full and funny. Dull pain seemed to fill every inch of him. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a mixture of fear and bravado.

"We were hoping you might remember something, anything about what happened to you," Gretchen asked.

His brow furrowed. Hadn't they been here when he was talking with his dad? Were they idiots or something? "I guess I got jumped by some guys. Dad must be able to tell you more than I can."

"We want you to tell us. Do you remember anything that happened that day?"

That day. Dean almost laughed, but the tight wrapping around his chest told him that would probably hurt. Hell, he didn't even know what day today was or how long ago "that day" happened. Still, he'd give it an effort. Dean thought for a minute then shook his head. "Everything is kinda mixed up," he said slowly. "I dunno. I think I took Sammy to school." He felt panic spike inside of him. "Sammy's okay, right?"

Seeing the fear flicker into the boy's face, Gretchen picked up a card from the pile. "He's fine. He's made you a lot of get well cards."

"Who are you? Where's my Dad?" Dean asked confusion beginning to cloud his eyes. "Dad?" he asked. His voice became more frantic. "Dad?!"

John stepped into the room. "I'm right here."

"Are these people doctors?" Dean asked and looked back at Gretchen and Jason. He didn't think they were doctors, but he couldn't remember who they were. Doctors didn't dress like these two, he knew that. Who else would they be, though?

"No, Ace. They're police officers."

"Social Services?" Dean whispered. He looked back at them. "Dad didn't do this. I-I don't remember who, but Dad would never hurt me."

"It's okay." Gretchen said and put her hand lightly on the bed railing. "We're not social services. We know your dad didn't do this, Dean." She winced. Dammit how had she let that slip out?

Dean shut his eyes and pulled away, panic clear on his bruised face as he shifted his abused body as far from her as he could. He began to tremble and hunkered down, making himself as small a target as possible and protecting his tender stomach. John roughly shoved the officers out of his way, furious with them, and moved to Dean's side. "It's okay, Ace. No one's going to hurt you. You're safe. I'm right here."

"D-Dad?" Dean asked and cautiously opened his eyes. But wasn't he …somewhere else? Somewhere where he'd been…hurt? No. No, his dad was right here and he was in a hospital, he guessed. Seeing the IV and casts he nodded to himself. Yeah, a hospital. He was safe here. But where was his brother?

Taking his hand, John reassured him. "I'm right here. And Sammy's just fine. He'll be here soon, okay? And so will Jim and Bobby."

"Pastor Jim?" Dean still trembled under his father's touch. Swallowing hard he tried to smile. "Will he bring me some strawberry shortcake? Or his apple pie?" The thought of eating made him more nauseous, but he wanted his father to think he was okay. Well, kinda okay. As okay as he could be with a broken leg and arm. And ribs. He was pretty sure a few ribs were broken. Jesus, had he been run over by a freaking dump truck or something?

John laughed weakly. "I'll see if he can."

Dean nodded and gripped his father's hand tightly. "Stay?"

"I won't leave your side. You go on back to sleep, okay? When Sammy gets back, we'll wake you, okay?"

"O-okay," Dean said and shut his eyes but tears rolled down his face. Why was he so scared? Why was he certain that at any moment something horrible was going to jump out and hurt him? He gripped his father's hand a bit tighter still. His father would protect him. He clung tenaciously to that thought.

Pulling a chair closer with his foot, John settled into it. He looked up at the officers, fury clear in his face. His voice was quiet, but held a tone that clearly indicated he wanted to skin both the officers alive. "I told you not to say his name. Get the hell out of here. You've seen how my son is. He can't help you."

"Sir," Jason said softly, "your son's prints are on the knife that killed Isabelle Chavez. His are the only prints on it."

The officer's implication slowly filtered its way through John's anger. His jaw clenched and he squeezed Dean's hand again. "You sleep, Ace. I'll be just outside the door talking with the officers. You just open your eyes and you'll see me there, okay? You just call and I'll be right back beside you."

Dean gave a tiny nod. "Okay, Dad," he said in a shaky voice and without opening his eyes. Reluctantly he let go of his father's hand.

John motioned the two police officer's out of the room. His voice was a low hiss. "According to Sam, Dean stood up for her, tried to protect her. That's what got him targeted by that damned gang in the first place. Don't you dare tell me you think my boy could have done that. She was long dead when Sammy got there and that gang leader told Sam he was the one who killed her, not Dean."

Feeling guilty that she'd caused the terror she saw in the injured teen, Gretchen spoke hesitantly, knowing she deserved the father's wrath. "She had sexual intercourse and was sodomized by multiple partners. We assume, as with your son, it was rape. With your son's prints on the knife, we wanted to eliminate him as a rape perpetrator and had the lab do a rush job on it. His DNA is a positive match to some of the semen collected."

John paled visibly and glanced back in at his son. It looked like Dean had already fallen back asleep. Sam was going to be really upset. "Then it wasn't by his choice. Dean would never force himself on anyone." John eyed the detectives. "So are you charging my son with rape? Do I need to get a lawyer?"

Gretchen wanted to lay a hand on the grieving father's shoulder but refrained. "Not yet. We'd like to get the story from him, though. The sooner we can, the better."

"Let me guess. Don't leave town," John said sarcastically.

Looking toward Dean's door, Gretchen said sympathetically, "We know there's no risk of that. But sir, when he does start to remember, we need to know."

Jason spoke then. "Word on the street says that your son raped Isabelle then killed her, and what happened to him was retribution for that." He held up his hand to stop John from interrupting. "We don't believe your son killed her, but right now the evidence suggests he took part in her probable rape and his fingerprints _are_ on the knife that was used to kill her."

"And have you brought in the sons-of-bitches that sodomized both my boys, beat them, who tortured and nearly killed Dean?" His hands clenched into fists, John wanted to rip someone, anyone, apart for what had been done.

Gretchen replied, "You said you won't make Sam testify if he doesn't want to and he doesn't. Without Sam and Dean's testimonies, everything on the gang is circumstantial. As always," she finished bitterly. "They cover their tracks very well. Frankly, sir, this is the first time we're aware of anyone who has survived their retribution. The Dementors control that neighborhood. No one will speak up against them."

John turned and looked in at his son. "I want to believe he won't remember any of it. But I know he will eventually. He'll probably remember every last detail. When…when he does, I'll let you know. I already have your card. Now go. Leave us alone."

"We'll be checking on his progress every week, Mr. Winchester," Jason said.

"I'm sure you will," John snapped. "But for the next six days I don't want to see your fucking faces around here."

"One last thing Mr. Winchester," Jason said. John turned and glared at him. "The Dementors _are_ very good at covering their tracks. And both your sons have escaped them. We'd be willing to offer them protection. The Dementors probably already know where your sons are."

John's eyes grew veiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Jason motioned his partner ahead of him and the two officers left.

Returning to Dean's side, John reached through the railing and took his hand. No one was getting to Dean. He'd see to that.


	21. Chapter 21

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

**This story steps outside the bounds of Brotherhood approval and is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators. If you do not wish to delve into a dark story of violence, rape and torture that in any way involves Brotherhood characters, then please do not read this story. **

The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

**For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture, rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

My apologies for the long delay in getting this chapter up. I added a new scene and had to revise some later items. This is again another long chapter and I hope is worth the wait.

**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 21**

_I haven't ever been so overcome with tears  
__that I collapsed to my knees outside your room  
__Your hospital room  
__-- Whispers of a Long Goodnight, The Lyndsay Diaries._

**Then:  
**_March 26, Deidersville, Illinois_

Sam stifled another yawn. For just sitting all day with his brother and father, he was amazed by how tired he felt. It was a few minutes after nine o'clock when Jim and Bobby arrived to take him back to the Kokomo Inn and, guiltily, he was more than ready to go. A long soak in a hot bath to ease his still sore body, followed by a nice warm bed and maybe, just maybe, a nightmare-free sleep sounded really good to him.

As the three crossed the dark hospital parking lot, Jim held Sam back until Bobby gave them the all clear, confirming the car had not been tampered with, then allowed Sam to climb into the back seat. The pastor and mechanic settled in the front.

Watching the two men that he'd known all his life and loved like uncles, Sam appreciated anew their protection and support. Recalling how Pastor Jim had baked sugar cookies in their suite late last night in an attempt to offer some comfort, Sam asked Jim, "Did Joshua and Jonas eat all the cookies?"

"Nope, but I did," Bobby said grinning at Sam in the review mirror.

"No you didn't. You better not have!" Sam countered, fairly certain Jim hadn't let Bobby eat them all.

Bobby laughed at the boy's consternation.

"Robert Singer, don't tease Samuel!" Jim admonished, sighing when Bobby only laughed harder. "I saved some cookies for you, Samuel, though I nearly lost a few fingers in the process and I had to threaten them with eternal damnation if they touched yours."

Sam chuckled, imagining Jim fighting off the other hunters with a spatula as he threatened them with Heaven's wrath. "Thank you Pastor Jim."

"You're welcome," Jim said; glad to have made the young boy laugh. Extracting a smile from the youngest Winchester had been nearly impossible over the past few days, but that was really no surprise. Still, all of the hunters had tried to comfort him in their own way. Boone, surprisingly, had the most success. Jim knew Boone was quite a story teller, some of them a bit taller than others. Almost as if he had a sixth sense, Boone seemed to know exactly what tale to tell to bring forth a smile from Sam, no matter how brief. It was still a smile and Jim was grateful to the older hunter. Boone was better with kids than Jim had ever imagined. The pastor wished a few stories could sooth the older Winchester brother. Thinking of Dean, Jim asked, "Was Dean feeling all right at suppertime?"

The smile disappeared from Sam's face. "Not really," Sam replied quietly. "He was still upset and confused when he woke up." Under his breath, Sam muttered, "Stupid cops."

"He didn't stay awake long then?" Bobby asked, glancing at Sam in the rearview mirror, before returning his eyes to the salt-encrusted road. Snow had fallen earlier, and with night fall, the temperatures had dropped drastically so ice was developing any place traffic was light.

"He did stay awake for a little while. We talked and played some checkers."

"Who won?" Bobby asked slyly.

Scrunching up his face in mild annoyance, Sam said with exasperation, "We weren't playing to win. We were just playing for fun."

"So he beat you, huh?" Bobby translated with a smirk.

"No!" Sam answered defensively. "We called it a draw. It wouldn't be fair to beat him. He did stay awake for the whole game, though. The nurse brought him dinner and he ate half a bowl of soup and some Jell-O. Then he complained that he wanted applesauce too, so Nurse Anne got him some. He ate almost half of that too," Sam bragged, pleased that Dean had finally eaten some semi-solid food. He told himself that his brother would be asking for cheeseburgers with extra onions in no time, and extra crunchy French fries, and pie.

"Did he keep up his normal question routine?" Jim asked. They were all getting accustomed to Dean's constant need to confirm Sam and John were safe. Even when John and Sam were there, he would ask them half-a-dozen times if they were okay.

"Not quite as bad, but then," Sam paused, swallowing hard, "he kinda freaked out before he fell back asleep." He absently picked at the stitching of the black seat. He hated feeling so helpless when his brother got scared and upset.

"About what?" Jim prodded gently. Even if Dean had become upset, that he had eaten and stayed awake longer was a good sign. Doctor Morton, Dean's primary physician, suggested Dean might be well enough to move into a private room within a day or two. That was quite heartening to them all.

"The orderly, Greg," Sam said. "Dean got all upset just when Greg was leaving. It was kinda weird. Greg's okay. He's talked with us and even talked with Dean before. Dean didn't freak then. Dad asked me if I thought maybe Greg could be a Dementor, but he's an awful lot older than the ones I saw. After Dad got Dean calmed down, Dean fell asleep pretty fast." Sam frowned to himself. Greg had kind of given him the creeps tonight, too. Greg hadn't done anything strange, he just made Sam nervous and Sam wasn't sure why.

"You said Dean was upset and confused. Maybe it was just having a stranger in the room," Jim suggested.

Sam shrugged. "Maybe."

Turning into the parking lot of the Kokomo Inn, Bobby grimaced. The closest parking place to their rooms was a few rows out and several doors down. He pulled into it and shifted the car into park. "This is as close as we get, I guess," Bobby said, releasing his seatbelt.

As Bobby climbed out of the car his boot hit a patch of ice and he fell on his rear, swearing as he went down. He heard Sam's laughter.

"That's what you get for telling me you ate all my cookies!"

"Samuel, it's not nice to laugh at someone else's misfortune," Jim said, his eyes twinkling as he added, "even if they may have earned it. Are you all right, Robert?"

"Fine," Bobby growled as he carefully climbed to his feet, glaring at the pastor. "Smart ass," he muttered. Zipping up his coat the mechanic brushed his behind free of the salt and grit before locking and closing the car door. The parking lot, though cleared of snow, still had sheets of black ice spotting its surface, as Bobby had so painfully discovered.

Sliding carefully from the car, Sam's teeth chattered as the wind bit hard, cutting through his winter coat. Vapor from his warm breath was stolen away before it barely had time to form as the three made their way across the lot. The second time Sam slipped on the ice, Jim took hold of the boy's arm to help steady him.

"Careful Samuel. No need to rush," Jim cautioned.

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered, bothered by the tight grip on his biceps, but sternly reminded himself it was only Jim and that he was safe. Sam was so cold and tired he just wanted to hurry inside to the warm hotel room. Slipping on another patch of ice, he practically pulled Jim down with him and his sore ribs stabbed him in protest. Hearing Jim's sharp gasp, Sam's chest tightened, afraid his stumble had hurt the pastor. The next thing Sam knew, Jim picked him up and rushed them to the nearest car, crouching down by its trunk. Sam wriggled out of Jim's hands, trembling, startled by the sudden physical contact. He looked at the pastor wide-eyed as he struggled to get his pounding heart to slow down. A thin stream of blood poured down Jim's cheek, it's origin less than an inch from his eye. Sam realized with a start the sound he had attributed to a car backfiring hadn't been a car at all. It had been the report of a gun.

Out of the blue, a gun with a silencer appeared in Jim's hand, as the pastor scanned the fence line beside the inn.

"P-pastor Jim?" Sam stammered, shocked. He knew Jim was a hunter, the Guardian in the Brotherhood even, but had rarely seen the placid pastor in combat. It was such a dichotomy that Sam was amazed by the sudden transformation.

"Samuel, get ready to move to the next car when I tell you to. And stay low." Jim's voice was firm and brooked no argument.

"Yes, sir," Sam answered automatically, gathering his feet under him. Jim's command snapped him out of his shock allowing his father's training to take over.

The silenced gun gave a "whump-hiss" sound as the pastor fired. "Now!" Jim ordered.

Sam scrambled to the next car. A high pitched whistle passed near him as he heard another gunshot. Stone scattered from the impact of the bullet on the brick wall of the Kokomo Inn not far from him. Then Joshua was there, grabbing hold of Sam around the waist, shielding the boy with his own body as he dragged Sam the thirty plus feet to the open doorway of the room.

"Let go of me!" Sam yelled, struggling against the unwanted grip.

Joshua ignored Sam until they were safely in John's bedroom and out of view of the window. Releasing his hold on the wriggling youth, Joshua stepped back, to give Sam the personal space he knew the boy needed. For a moment, he truly wished Caleb was here rather than himself. He always felt awkward around the Winchester brothers in the best of times. Though in the best of times, Joshua mused, he didn't feel so much awkward as ready to throttle one or both of the boys. Joshua's eyes scanned Sam for blood, relieved when he saw none. Sam had flattened himself against the wall furthest from Joshua and was almost as pale as the wall itself.

"Sam, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Joshua asked quietly, hoping to get through to the traumatized youth. Getting no response, Joshua sighed then moved to the door of the bedroom, gun in hand, to watch the outer doorway that he'd left open for the ease of the other hunters' retreat. _If_ they retreated, Joshua thought grimly. He knew they may well go after the punks. Joshua distractedly noted to himself he would never classify Caleb in the "punk" category again. In spite of how annoying the other man could be at times, "punk" was now permanently redefined in his mind by the Dementors. If the others went after them, Joshua sincerely hoped justice was meted out.

"Joshua, it's Jonas." A deep voice announced quietly before the hunter stepped into the suite.

"Bobby and Jim?" Joshua asked.

"Went after them," Jonas said, not quite closing the door. The hunter eyed the parking lot and the swath of shadows by the fence where the gunfire had originated.

"I do hope they considered the Dementors may have intended this as a trap to draw them out and kill them." Hearing Sam's gasp, Joshua shut his eyes as he sighed heavily. Why couldn't he remember to speak more carefully around Sam? Joshua turned and saw that Sam had regained some color. "They will be fine," he told Sam.

Sam rushed forward, trying to push passed Joshua, alarmed. "They shot Pastor Jim! They'll kill them both!"

Joshua grabbed the boy's shoulders and held Sam back.

"Let me go! They want me! Me! I can lead them away. Pastor Jim!! Bobby!!" Sam screamed, as he tried to wrench free of Joshua.

"Sam, calm down," Joshua said firmly, shaking the boy slightly. "Just calm down! Jim and Bobby will be back in a minute. They will be fine." Joshua wondered if indeed Jim had been shot. He had been completely focused on pulling Sam to safety and, with chagrin, realized he hadn't even looked to see if Bobby and Jim were okay. In his defense, that had been Jonas' job, but he did hope the other two hunters were okay.

Sam struggled violently, but couldn't shake free of the older hunter's grasp. All he managed was to strain his battered body, the sudden fierce pain in his ribs bringing tears to his eyes and stealing his breath.

"Jim and Bobby are coming back," Jonas declared abruptly from his post beside the front door. "They look fine," he added.

"See?" Joshua said triumphantly, "Jim and Bobby are returning. I told you they would be okay. They are fine."

"Are you sure?" Sam gasped, looking up to meet Joshua's eyes. "The Dementors didn't get them?"

"The Dementors did not get them," Joshua confirmed. Joshua released Sam when he heard the outer door open, placing himself between the boy and whoever was entering just in case. He craned his neck and was relieved to see Pastor Jim enter the suite, Bobby on his heels. The wound on Jim's face was still seeping blood, thin rivulets cutting through the drier blood coating his cheek and soaking his shirt collar.

"Samuel?" Jim asked as soon as he reached the room, his gaze hunting worriedly for the boy. He was dismayed to see Sam obviously in pain behind Joshua.

"Pastor Jim!" Relief colored Sam's voice as he pushed around Joshua to the pastor, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, son." Jim replied gently as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. The pastor was pleased when Sam did not immediately pull away for once. "Where are you hurt?"

"I didn't see any new injuries on him," Joshua piped up before Sam could respond.

"Thank you, Joshua," Jim said sincerely to the younger hunter. "I appreciate how quickly you got Samuel to safety."

Giving a nod to the pastor, Joshua commented, "That is our job. To protect the Winchesters." He left the bedroom to resume his watch by the window, happy to turn Sam over to Jim and Bobby's care.

Bobby discreetly handed Jim a warm, damp cloth for his bleeding cheek then knelt by Sam and gently gripped the boy's arms to turn Sam to face him. "Hey, kiddo, let's get a look at you."

"Are you okay, Bobby?" Sam queried, his voice strained with pain.

"Yeah, I'm fine, kid," Bobby confirmed. His eyes roved over Sam, and seeing no blood or bullet torn clothes, he rocked back on his heels, slightly puzzled. "Where are you hurt, Sammy?"

Ignoring the question, Sam asked "Did you get them?"

Sighing, Bobby shook his head. "No, they got away. Now tell me, where are you hurt?"

"My ribs," Sam replied reluctantly. "I think I pulled something."

"Crap." Bobby grunted as he climbed to his feet. "Let's get your jacket and shirt off so I can take a look."

Sam shrugged carefully out of his coat then involuntarily jerked away from Bobby as the man reached for the hem of his shirt to help him out of it, gasping at the sudden spike of pain.

"Whoa! Easy, Sam." Bobby backed off. "I have to get your shirt off to check your ribs. I'm not gonna hurt you, son."

Catching his breath, Sam eyed Bobby apologetically, "I know, I'm sorry. I can get it off myself." He put his words to action, pulling the sweatshirt up, but paused as the motion strained his ribs.

"Sam," Bobby said softly, "Let me help you with that. Okay?"

With a sigh, Sam nodded, allowing the mechanic to help him. Once the shirt was off, Bobby unwrapped Sam's ribs then prodded the area carefully, checking for any displacement. Sam gritted his teeth as he held himself stiffly still. Keenly aware of Sam's discomfort, Bobby finished the exam quickly, yet thoroughly, pleased that nothing was out of place.

"Doesn't look too bad," Bobby told Sam. "I think you just moved a little too much. You wanna get a shower before I re-wrap 'em?"

Sam nodded wordlessly. As he moved toward the bathroom, Sam glanced over his shoulder at Jim and saw Jonas examining his bullet-skimmed cheek.

Jim winced as Jonas put antiseptic on the wound and bandaged it. "I'd better call John," the pastor said, "and let him know what happened here. Dean's visit by the police may have prompted this attack. I fear the Dementors merely gave us a taste of what lies ahead."

Sam made it to the privacy of the bathroom and closed the door before reaction hit him. Trembling as the adrenaline surge fled, the boy sank slowly down the wall to the floor. He drew his knees up, wrapping his arms over them and buried his face as he fought the urge to cry. Struggling to control himself, Sam inhaled deeply, grimacing at the pain in his ribs. Why couldn't those bastards just leave them alone? What had they really done to deserve this? Through the thin door he heard Pastor Jim talking on the phone with his father. Sam knew he had to get control of himself before his father returned because he did not want to further disappoint the man by showing so much weakness. Forcing himself to his feet, Sam carefully stripped and stepped into the shower, no longer in the mood for a long soak in the tub. He let the warm water flush away the tears and hopefully any evidence of his crying.

SNSNSNSNSNSNNSNSNSNSN

John jumped, startled by the sudden ringing of the phone in Dean's room. Fear twisted his guts as a thousand scenarios of possible disasters flashed through his mind. He snatched up the phone on the second ring. "Yeah?" he said gruffly.

"John? It's Jim." The pastor's voice was calm, but that did nothing to sooth John's nerves. "Sam is fine, but we had a little trouble when we arrived at the inn."

"What happened?" John demanded. He glanced up as the door to Dean's room opened to admit Boone. He nodded to the other hunter, acknowledging his presence.

Jim replied, "They took a couple of shots at us when we arrived. Bobby and I chased after them, but unfortunately they know the area much better than we do and managed to get away. As I said, Sam is fine."

John cursed under his breath. "Okay, I'll be there soon. Boone can handle these last few hours by himself." He knew full well the Dementors would anticipate his early return. That meant he was potentially making himself a target, or leaving Dean with less protection than he would like. Dean was still in ICU and its access was well controlled so leaving only one hunter for a few hours should not put Dean in particular danger.

"Be very careful, Jonathan," the pastor cautioned. "We'll keep an eye out for your arrival so we can cover you, but watch yourself."

"I will, Jim," the hunter said. He hung up the phone and turned to Boone who patiently waited to hear the news. "The Dementors took a couple shots at them when they got to the inn."

Boone gave a slow nod. "Only a matter of time before they stopped watching and started acting." He eyed John thoughtfully. "We know where they hide to watch us. Do we start giving back a little now?"

"They got away from Jim and Bobby tonight because we still don't know the lay of the land well enough. We need to step up our scouting. I'm going to head back to the inn and check on Sam. This had to have shaken him."

"They will be expecting that," Boone pointed out.

John gave a curt nod to the hunter. "I know that Boone." He winced at the bite to his words.

Boone couldn't help his soft laugh. "I'm sure you do, just don't let them make you jumpy."

John snorted. "Too late for that. I'll send Jonas and Joshua over a little early. We need to start shuffling our patterns."

Boone nodded. "I'll be here."

John slipped into his leather jacket as he stepped over to Dean's bedside. Running a hand gently over his son's short cropped hair, he whispered in his ear, "Sleep well, Ace. I'll be back later." John straightened, gave Boone a final nod then left.

As he pulled into the parking lot of the Kokomo Inn, John scanned the area critically, looking for any hint of snipers. Not finding anything amiss, he parked the Impala next to Bobby's car and quickly made his way to the suite without incident. The door was pulled open by Jim just as John reached for the knob. The hunter stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Where's Sammy?" John asked immediately.

"He's in the bathroom," Jim replied. "The shower just turned off, so I'm sure he'll be out soon."

Pointing to the bandage on the pastor's cheek, John questioned, "You ok?"

"Yes," Jim answered, gingerly touching the wound. "It's just a crease."

"Anyone else hurt," John queried as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto one of the chairs at the kitchenette table.

"No."

John nodded, then sighed deeply as he sank into a chair. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, as he fingered his wedding band. Softly he told the pastor, "I think it's time to get Sammy out of here."

"He's not going to take that well."

"I know." The tired father stared at gold band as he twisted it around his finger. "Doesn't matter though. I need to have him some place safe. As soon as Dean can be moved, I'll get him out of here too. Until then, I can at least get Sammy out of this damned town."

Jim nodded in agreement. "Bobby and I can take him back to the farm in the morning."

Exhausted brown eyes looked up at the pastor. "No, I want you to stay a few days. If you don't mind, I'd like Jonas and Bobby to go to the farm"

Looking curiously at him, Jim asked, "Why?"

"You'll think I'm being paranoid," John responded wryly, "and maybe I am. When Sam up and disappears, the Dementors are going to assume, since you were the first here, that Sam went with you. Your plates list the county in Kentucky, and it wouldn't be all that hard to track down a pastor. I don't know to what lengths the Dementors are willing to go to remove Sam as a threat. They're ready to try to kill him. They may be willing to hunt him down, even out of state."

Jim considered John's words and gave a slow nod. "I'd be surprised if they did, but I can see your point. I'll wait a few days."

His voice filled with gratitude, John said, "Thank you."

Stepping over to his friend, Jim laid a hand on the other man's shoulder trying to convey some comfort, "You're welcome, Jonathon."

"Would you be all right with us staying with you? When Dean gets out of the hospital? I imagine he'll be in a wheel chair for a couple of weeks at least."

Jim smiled. "Of course you're welcome to stay. We can install ramps for Dean and move things around to accommodate the wheel chair."

John gave a relieved nod.

The bathroom door opened and Jim gave a squeeze to John's shoulder as he made his way to the adjoining suite to give the father and son some privacy. He halted at the doorway, turning back to remind John, "Sam's ribs need to be re-wrapped and he should probably take a pain pill so he can sleep."

John nodded. He shifted his attention to watch his son walk stiffly out of the bathroom. "Hey Sammy."

Sam's head snapped up in surprise at his father's voice since he hadn't heard him return. "Dad. When did you get here?"

"Just a couple minutes ago. How're you doing, kiddo?"

"Fine," Sam replied automatically. He had donned a pair of sweat pants, but not a shirt yet, so the bruises on his torso stood out in stark relief. He held a fresh ace bandage in one hand. Quietly, he asked, "Could you help me with my ribs, please? Bobby was gonna help me…"

"Sure thing, Sammy. Come here." John stood as Sam approached him and he took the bandage from the boy's hands. As gently as he could, he wrapped the ribs, barely keeping the grimace from his face at the contusions on his son's skin. Quietly John told Sam while he worked, "Tomorrow Jonas and Bobby are taking you to Jim's."

"No!" Sam tried to jerk away from his father, but John held him firmly. Sam tried to hide the wince of pain. Determinedly he stated, "I'm not leaving Dean."

"Sammy," John said sternly, "I'm not going to argue with you about this. My decision is final. I need you someplace safe, so you're leaving tomorrow with Jonas and Bobby."

"But Dad," Sam pleaded, "Dean needs me. He'll freak if I'm not here."

John secured the bandage, then cupped the back of Sam's neck with his hand. "Listen to me, Sammy. I'll make sure Dean knows you're safe, but I need you out of here. I need to know that you, at least, are safe, so I can concentrate on keeping Dean safe. As soon as Dean can travel, I'll bring him to the hospital in New Haven, okay? But for now, I want you to go to Jim's." He squeezed Sam's neck affectionately, adding a word he rarely used with his sons, "Please?"

Surprise lit Sam's hazel eyes. Looking up at his father, he was abruptly taken aback by how weary the man appeared and suddenly felt the fight drain out of him. Sam bit his lip, then nodded. "Could I come back every couple days maybe? Jim's is only a few hours away."

A small smile tugged at John's lips. A few hours. The farm was five hours away. Well, he mused, he had taught his boys that concept of miles and time. A short drive to the Winchesters was anything under eight hours. "Let's see how this goes." John saw the argument rising in Sam and squeezed Sam's neck again. "I'm not saying 'no', I'm saying let's give it a few days. So long as it calms down, then yeah, you can come back for a day, maybe two. I do have an important job for you to do at Jim's place, Sammy. I need you, Bobby, and Jonas to get the farm ready for when Dean's well enough to leave the hospital. He'll be in a wheel chair for awhile. We're going to need ramps put in, furniture moved. Dean likes that garden of Jim's, for the strawberries if nothing else. I want you to see if you can get it smoothed out so we can wheel him around out there. Maybe even work on grading a path out to the pond, too. Keeping him cooped up inside at Jim's isn't going to be any better for him than keeping him cooped up in the hospital."

Sam knew that in part it was something to keep him busy and distracted from worrying about Dean, but it was work that needed to be done and it would help Dean. "When do I have to go?" His voice was filled with misery.

Letting his hand drop from Sam's neck, John told him, "They're doing another reconstructive surgery on his hand and arm tomorrow morning and he'll be moved into a regular room for recovery. Dean should be awake by the afternoon. You can head out after he's fallen asleep again, okay?"

Hesitantly, Sam nodded.

John was glad for his son's capitulation, having anticipated it would be a longer and louder battle. He walked into the bathroom to retrieve Sam's sweatshirt and returned with it to his son. Holding the garment out, John helped Sam shrug into it. "I want you to take a pain pill. Then do you think you can get some sleep?"

"Will you be here?" Sam asked softly.

"Yeah, Sammy," John smiled reassuringly at his son, "I'll be here all night."

Timidly Sam returned his smile, "Okay."

John motioned towards the kitchen table, "Looks like there are some cookies left. You want a couple of those and a glass of milk with your pills?"

Sam nodded as he followed his father to the table, obediently taking the medicine that was offered along with the snack. He didn't like the idea of leaving Dean, but watching his father's fatigued movements, suddenly realized he did not want to add to the man's burden. If going to the farm would help ease his dad's load, then Sam supposed he could suck it up and do that for him. Taking a seat at the table, he looked up at his father, "Hey Dad?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Will you call me every day and let me know how Dean's doing?"

"Sure thing, kiddo," John agreed. "But how about I do you one better. Why don't I have Dean call you? I know he'll want to talk with you."

Sam's smile broadened. "That would be great."

John gave a quick squeeze to Sam's shoulder, pleased that the boy barely flinched at his touch. "Eat up, then I want you to go to bed."

Sam nodded his concurrence as John took a seat across from him and snagged a cookie.

"Hmm. These aren't half bad." John murmured around the mouthful with a wink at Sam.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean winced as consciousness dribbled in. His right arm and hand ached fiercely. Slowly he opened his eyes and blinked a few times, struggling to put snatches of memory into a comprehensible order. If his brain felt any fuller of cobwebs he'd start spitting spiders any minute.

When Dean realized Sam sat beside him, holding his left hand, he managed to rasp out a, "Hey."

Sam looked up from the book he was reading and grinned. "Heya, Big Brother. How do you feel?" Sam asked, sliding the paperclip he was using as a bookmark into place before setting the book aside.

"My arm hurts," Dean mumbled.

"Duh. They just did another reconstructive surgery on it."

"Another?" Dean asked, wondering just how badly his arm was messed up. He twisted his head to look at his brother. Though Sam sounded cheerful, Sam's eyes spoke another story, one of exhaustion and fright. A kid Sam's age shouldn't have dark circles under his eyes. It was just wrong, and Dean was sure it was his fault. He needed to reassure his brother he was okay and the best way he could think of to do that was to give his kid brother shit. "What's with the hand holding, Dude?" he asked teasingly.

Sam sat up straighter. No first question of whether or not he or John was okay and no terrified concern in Dean's eyes? Sam broke into a smile, that lack of questions comforting him. His smile disappeared just as quickly though and he bit his lip. He really didn't want to know the answer to his question but knew he had to ask. "Yeah. It's your second. Do you… remember anything?"

"Sure. One plus one is two. I remember my ABCs, too," Dean said sarcastically. Looking at the arm cast, he saw a handful of colorful drawings and quips on the bright white surface, almost all in Sam's careful script or style. The effort to move his fingers made him hiss with pain.

Sam huffed. "I mean about how you got in here. About what happened to you."

Chuckling a little at his brother's annoyance, Dean thought for a minute but the pain and drugs clouded his memories. "Nah. Nothing but fuzzies in my brain. What the hell happened, anyhow? And can I get something for my arm?"

"They've already got you maxed out on painkillers," Sam said regretfully. Dr. Morton had said Dean's reconstructive surgeries were going well and that Dean ought to recover some use of his hand and arm. He wondered if "some use" was going to be good enough for Dean not to feel like a cripple.

Scowling, Dean muttered, "Swell," as he glared at the offending arm. Reconstructive surgery. That just sucked out loud. Sweeping his gaze over the room, he realized his father was there too. His father looked even worse than Sam. Crap. Whatever happened, he did a bang up job of it. His gaze drifted between his family members as he asked, "So are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?"

Sam glanced back at his father. Climbing to his feet, John approached his sons. "You ran into some trouble at school. You got jumped."

Taking stock of his injuries, Dean looked at his father. "Jumped? You sure they didn't run me over with a truck or something? How many jumped me?"

"Thirteen, maybe more," Sam said. "The Dementors. They're still after you. And me. Dad's making me go to Pastor Jim's," Sam said, his voice a mix of anger and anguish. As the time grew closer to when he had to leave he got more and more upset. He wanted to be with Dean no matter the risk to himself, but Pastor Jim had almost been shot because of him. Sam had to leave to protect Jim, Bobby, and the others if nothing else. He really wished Caleb and Mac were with them, though. "I'll be back every couple days and Dad said he'll make sure you call me at least once or twice every day."

Dementors. Snatches of avoiding the gang at school and other less clear images flashed through Dean's head. He knew the Dementors were dangerous. _Obviously Einstein, _Dean thought_._ They had wanted his hide practically from day one and something to do that girl, Isabelle, had made it worse. Whatever their twisted reasoning, he understood that they wanted to nail him, but what did they want with Sam? Probably just because Sam was his kid brother, he decided.

Dean gave his brother a half-smile. "If they're still after us, then Dad's right. You need to get out of town. I'll join you as soon as they'll let me, okay, Runt?" He reached up and tousled his brother's hair. Rather than slapping Dean's hand away, Sam hung his head.

Frowning, Dean glanced worriedly at his father. John shrugged, mouthing, "He doesn't want to go."

Dean refocused on his brother. Putting a finger under Sam's chin, he lifted it until they were eye to eye. "Look, I know being away from my sparkling personality and handsome face is almost cruel…" Sam's sad look did not change and Dean sighed. A chick-flick moment was going to be required to get his brother through this.

"Knowing you're safe is more important than anything to me, Sammy," Dean said softly. "I'm in no shape to look out for you." He saw Sam's protest begin to build and quickly added, "I know you can take care of yourself." He grinned at his brother. "You are almost a teenager. Hey, you know I can take care of myself and look how they handed my ass to me and then some. Please Sam. Follow Dad's orders. I'll feel better knowing you're safe and I'll call you a couple times a day. I bet I'll be bored out of my skull in nothing flat, so you can read to me, or tell me jokes or something over the phone. I'm probably going to have a lot of homework to catch up on. You can help me with that, too."

Sam shrugged, wrapping his hands around the lowered bed rail, gripping it so tightly his knuckles were almost white. His gaze dropped away from his brother's once again, studying the IV tubing taped to Dean's arm. "Dad pulled us out of school and next week is Spring Break anyhow. No homework."

"Spring break? But that's like a week away…I've been in here that long?" Dean asked slowly, trying to wrap his brain around the lost time. Hell, no wonder his dad and brother looked like basket cases, especially if he'd been out cold all that time.

"You were in ICU for a little over a week. You were just moved into a regular room today. You don't remember waking up before?"

Paling a little Dean asked, "That bad, huh?" He'd woken up before? News to him. He couldn't even recall the last thing before all this happened, not with much assurance anyhow. Holding and soothing that girl Isabelle, packing up to leave…and that was about it. There were other bits and pieces floating around the edges of his mind, but it was just too much effort to reel them in and sort them out.

"You almost died," Sam said, his voice small and frightened. The words rushed out of him, filled with apology. "It was my fault. I should have let the paramedics take you. But you didn't want to go with them. You insisted I take you back to the motel. Pastor Jim came and we brought you in. By then, you wouldn't wake up."

Almost died? Dean's attention snapped back to his little brother. His fault? Paramedics? Dean's head was hurting just trying to sort it all out. Most importantly, he needed to keep Sam from blaming himself for whatever happened. Dean was pretty certain he managed to piss off the Dementors all by himself and his smart mouth. Sam must have found him and …huh, if the paramedics saw him, Sam wouldn't have been able to keep them from bringing him in if he were in this bad of shape. He shrugged off the confusion. Whatever happened, he wasn't surprised he wouldn't let Sam take him to the hospital, not if Dad wasn't back yet. Dean gripped Sam's arm, "Hey Dude, don't blame yourself. If I wouldn't let you, I wouldn't let you. With Pastor Jim, there wouldn't be any questions from Social Services, right? You did good, Sammy. Besides, Captain One Helluva Big Brother won't just kick off. You know that."

Sam threw his arms around Dean as best he could. Wincing, Dean bit back the pain in his ribs Sam's weight caused. Sobs shook his brother's small frame and Dean rubbed Sam's back in an effort to soothe him. "I'm okay, little bro'. Really."

A questioning look passed to his father resulted in a half-nod from John and John's weary eyes conveyed he'd explain everything later. Dean returned the slight nod and gave Sam a one-armed hug. "C'mon, Runt. You're being a drama queen. I'm going to be fine. A few broken bones can't keep me down long. I'll be tossing you in the back seat so I get to ride shotgun in no time at all."

Sam finally released his hold. His face still wet with tears, he sniffled. "You can have shotgun from now on. I don't mind."

Dean wiped at Sam's tears. "Aw, now what fun would that be if you just give it to me?" He smiled at his brother tiredly. "So when are you headed out of town?"

"Tonight."

"Then we can get in a few games of cards before you leave. But go easy on me. Fuzzies in the brain, remember?" Dean said, beginning to struggle to stay awake. There must be some strong sedatives in the IV. For as much as his arm hurt, he wasn't going to complain even though he wanted to try to stay awake a little longer, to ease Sam's worry if nothing else.

Retrieving the deck of cards from his half-finished game of solitaire, John handed them to Sam. When Sam turned back to Dean, Dean's eyes were only half-open.

"You sleep," Sam told him. "We can play when you wake up." New tears dribbled down Sam's face, knowing he would already be halfway or more to Jim's farm by then.

"No, deal the cards," Dean mumbled but his eyelids only flickered open briefly before shutting again. "I'll still beat you…" Dean said, his words trailing off as sleep reclaimed him.

Sam looked back at his father. "He still doesn't remember anything we tell him. Will he," Sam swallowed back his fear, "will he ever?"

A small smile touched John's lips. He couldn't let Sam know he was as upset as Sam that Sam was leaving for the farm. John gently squeezed the back of Sam's neck and pulled him a little closer to his side. "He made more sense this time than he has so far, don't you think? And he didn't ask once if we were okay. When they start lowering his pain medication and cutting back on his sedatives, I'm sure he'll start remembering what we tell him. His nightmares have eased and he doesn't wake up as panicked as he has been. He's going to be fine."

"What happens when he starts to remember…them?" Sam asked, his voice trembling. He didn't want Dean to remember any of it. Not what happened to him, and definitely not what happened to Sam.

John had asked himself that same question a dozen times every day. "Then we'll help him get through it. Maybe by then he'll be ready to leave the hospital and we can get him out to Jim's place. When Caleb and Mac get back, they'll be able to help him if he needs it. You know that."

Sam took Dean's hand again. He knew he'd have to leave as soon as Jonas and Bobby got there and he wanted Dean to know he was there for as long as he could.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_They were beating him. They were laughing as they tortured him. Isabelle's guts bulged from her abdomen, blood pouring out of her and pooling around her in a growing puddle of crimson. Refocusing on him, they continued to beat him or touch and…invade…him in terrible ways. Then Sam was there. They tortured Dean more, Sam watching on, until they turned to Sam and touched Sam the way they had touched Dean, touched him in ways a child should never be touched. _

Dean jumped awake, a silent cry on his lips.

It was all crystal clear in his mind, every last horrible detail. His gaze darted desperately around the room. Where was he? Did they still have him? Did they still have Sam? He saw his father playing a game of solitaire beside him. The TV was on, but it was muted. Relief filled him that he was apparently safe. He didn't want to face his father, his guilt and humiliation overwhelming, but he had to know where Sam was. If Sam was safe. Maybe it was all a terrible nightmare. Maybe Sam hadn't been there. What he remembered just couldn't have happened to his baby brother. No. It couldn't have.

"Dad?" Dean asked softly.

Looking over at his son, John smiled. "Hey Ace. How you feeling today? They've cut back a little on the sedatives. You doing okay?" He didn't like the pallor to his boy's face and the fright shadowing his eyes. A glance at the monitor showed John that Dean's heart rate had sky-rocketed as had his blood pressure. With a critical eye, he watched to make certain Dean wasn't going to hyperventilate. He knew what was coming next and felt his hope dry up.

"Where's Sammy? Is he okay?" Dean asked, trying not to sound as frantic as he felt. He saw his broken leg was elevated in a sling and started to reach for the handle that would lower it only to discover his right arm was casted as well and it hurt his ribs to even try to move his arm. He had to get out of bed and get his father to take him to Sam. He needed to see Sam.

John sighed inwardly. Back to the same questions. The doctor had warned him there would be some teeter-tottering between clarity and confusion for Dean. It looked like today was going to be one of his bad days. "Calm down, Ace, or you're going to hyperventilate. Just slow your breathing down. Sam's fine. He's out at Pastor Jim's. He'll be in to visit you tomorrow afternoon."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, trying to tell if his father might be lying to him to assuage his worries.

"Yes. Look at your casts. Sammy's drawn on them and made you a slew of get well cards." John pointed to all the cards taped up on the walls and handed Dean a couple that seemed to be his favorite, invariably making him chuckle even on his worst days. "You want to call him?"

Not trusting himself to speak, Dean nodded, barely glancing at the cards his father handed him. After John speed dialed the farm, he handed Dean the phone. Dean jerked back at his father's sudden movement toward him.

Grinding his teeth, John reminded himself to move slower around his son. Dean must have had some bad nightmares. With the sedatives, Dean didn't necessarily telegraph his dreams, but he hadn't been this jumpy in a long time so they must have been worse than normal.

"Big brother?" Sam asked hopefully. It was almost two in the afternoon and this was the first call he had gotten. Dean usually called about ten AM, then again about seven or so. His level of coherence varied greatly from call to call and Sam never really knew what to expect. He did hope it was Dean and not his father, but only because if it was John it meant Dean was too out of it to talk to him.

"You okay?" Dean asked fearfully.

"Yeah, of course. How are you feeling?" Sam sank into the chair at the kitchen table. He eyed the bowl of apples sitting on a lacy doily in the middle of the table that he knew Pastor Jim's late wife had made.

Dean's concerned tone told Sam immediately that is was one of Dean's bad days and readied himself for the reassurances he knew he'd have to give his brother. He stretched out his hand and snagged one of the apples from the bowl. He'd be glad when the apples from Jim's trees came in season. They were so much better than the store bought ones.

"I'm," Dean forced out the lie, "I'm doing fine. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Keeping his tone light, Sam said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just been working on getting things ready for you to come to the farm. We've about got the wheelchair ramp along the front steps done. But we did a lot of Palm Sunday stuff today, so we didn't get too much done on it. We'll be in to see you tomorrow. Then when we get back, we're going to get the garden all set up so we can wheel you around out there. Getting you to the angel garden is going to be a bitch," Sam winced, hoping Jim hadn't heard him. "We've got to fill in all those low areas that get muddy."

"O-okay." Dean tried to swallow back his fear. "You're sure you're okay?"

Sam huffed in mild frustration. This was why he wished he could stay with Dean. "I'm _fine_."

Dean was silent for a minute, chewing on his lip while he tried to decide if Sam was lying to him. Sam could be three rooms away, hurt worse than Dean was and Dean would never know the difference. "Then I'll see you tomorrow," Dean said. "Right?"

"Yep. We're going to eat breakfast and then head in. Jim promised me blueberry muffins. I'll bring you one if I can keep Bobby from eating them all. We should be there in time for your lunch. Want us to stop and get you take out somewhere? I could sneak it in to you so you don't have to eat more hospital food."

"I'm not really feeling up to eating much," Dean said softly, Isabelle's spewing guts flashing into his mind. The taste of bile flavored his mouth sourly.

"Oh, okay. Not even a shake?" Sam asked, a little disappointed. Dean's hunger came in fits and starts. He would be glad when Dean was eating like a horse again.

Hearing Sam's worry, he added, "Uh, some M&Ms maybe?" They didn't sound good at all, but he knew it would make Sam feel better to hear that he wanted them.

"You bet!" Sam said enthusiastically. "We get you a big bag of 'em!"

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," Dean said and cut the connection without a goodbye. He started to set the phone down next to him when John reached out for it. Dean stared at John's expectant hand and reluctantly gave him the phone.

"Are you thirsty or hungry, Ace?" John asked as he slid the cell phone into his pocket.

Dean shook his head minutely. He could still taste the drain cleaner. He could still smell her perfume.

Concern washed over John's face. Dean was having a really bad day. "Ace, you okay?"

Although he nodded, John saw a new and different fear in Dean and his heart lurched at the terror he saw in his boy's eyes. Oh, God.

"You remember," John said softly, not wanting to hear the answer he knew he would.

"Remember what?" Dean whispered, feeling a tremor run through him. His green eyes were wide, his pupils dilated.

"What happened to you."

Denying those horrible memories, Dean shook his head violently. No, it was just a bad dream he told himself. Just a bad dream. He felt the bile rise suddenly and managed to push himself up enough so that he puked over the side of the bed. His ribs scream agony and he doubled over in pain.

"Dean!" John said, reaching to help his son, in his concern momentarily forgetting what he'd drilled into everyone else about using Dean's name.

Dean whimpered and curled in on himself. _No, please no!_ he thought desperately. He already hurt. What would they do to him this time? The battery again? The pipe? Punch him in his broken ribs? Seek pleasure as they humiliated him? He felt the hand on his shoulder and pulled away, struggling to climb out of the bed.

"Ace!" John said, kicking himself for using Dean's name. "You're safe. Calm down."

Dean clutched the cold bedrail to his chest and tried to get his leg free but it was tied down. He couldn't get it loose. He yanked again, but they'd tied it too well and he could hardly move it. Worse, they were behind him. He knew what they'd do. What they'd done over and over and over. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the laughter, for them to say his name, and then …then… He dry heaved this time and whimpered as the pain raked him. Just let him die. Just let the pain end. He wanted them to finish him. Put a gun to the back of his head and just do it. But if he begged for death, they'd drag it out longer. He had to be strong. He had to show them what a Winchester could endure. "Just get it over with, you mother-fuckers," Dean snarled. He tensed, waiting for it.

John came around to the other side of the bed. "Ace, it's Dad. You're okay. You're in the hospital. You're safe."

Dean trembled as he waited, lost in his own nightmare.

John laid a hand on Dean's arm hoping to get through to his frightened son. Dean back fisted him and then cried out as pain shot through his hand. Somebody had stabbed his hand with something. He looked, afraid he'd see his own knife sticking out the back of his hand. His brow furrowed and he saw an IV nearly torn out of his hand. He saw his father a few feet away, his hand on his cheek, a startled look on his face.

"Dad?" Dean asked, confused. He was certain he'd been in the warehouse just moments before. Where was he now? Where was Sam?

"Ace," John said and cautiously moved forward. "You back with me?"

"Where am I?" He looked around but the room was unfamiliar. He catalogued his surroundings but just couldn't make the connection.

"You're in a hospital," John said slowly. "You've been here a little over two weeks now. Sam will be in to see you tomorrow. He's doing okay; he's out at Jim's place."

"They hurt him," Dean whispered.

John acknowledged that painful truth. "Yes, but he's mostly healed up. He's out at Jim's to make sure he's safe from that gang. He comes into town every couple days to visit you. He'll be in tomorrow," John reiterated, knowing when Dean was this confused, his mind just couldn't hold on to anything for very long.

A hospital his father said. Dean's gaze took in the room. That seemed right. His arm and leg were casted and he felt the tight wrap around his ribs. He ached everywhere. The taste of bile was strong in his mouth and the smell of it nauseating. Looking down, he saw the puddle of bile on the tiled floor. Still trembling, he slowly pushed himself away from the bed rail and on to his back. The head of the cot was elevated enough he could see his father, elevated enough that he didn't feel completely vulnerable.

Dean gave a slight nod. Sam would be in tomorrow. Sam, who'd come after him. Sam who'd been attacked like he had. Sam who'd…carried him out? That part was a little vague. They'd given him drugs. To keep him docile while they went out for food. Not enough to overdose him, Juarez had promised. He stared at his father, trying to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming that he was safe, but that he really was safe. He looked at the crook of his arm. No needle marks. He looked at the IV and then around the room, his gaze coming back to rest on his father. John had moved closer and Dean tried to sink further in the cot. He didn't want to be touched.

"Stay away," Dean hissed, no longer seeing his father before him, but merely a looming figure ready to hurt him. Frantically he searched for a weapon, for something to protect himself. He found a plastic cup full of liquid but as soon as he picked it up, he dropped it. He could smell the drain cleaner in it. He could feel his mouth burning. No. He wasn't safe. He was having delusions that he was safe. The drugs Juarez had given him were making him imagine his desires as real. Wailing in anger and frustration, he folded in on himself, pulling his mind back and away from the terrors he no longer wanted to face. He buried his consciousness as deeply as he could. He'd done it before, when his mother went away and his house burned. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd done it, but he'd find a way now.

John watched helplessly as his son panicked, started to pick up a cup as if to throw it at him, then dropped it as if it had burned him. Dean cried out in agony then his body relaxed suddenly, his eyes glassy and empty. The heart monitor assured him his son was still alive, still breathing. John had seen that glassy look in his son's eyes before. It had taken Mac and Caleb months to coax him back out. Tears slid down John's face as he gripped his son's arm, sobbing at Dean's bedside. "No, Ace, don't do this. Please don't do this. Come back to me, Ace, please come back to me…"


	22. Chapter 22

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators nor considered part of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the topics found in this story.

For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

My apologies for the long delay. This is again another long chapter and I hope is worth the wait.

**NOTE TO MY READERS** A dear friend completely surprised me with a fan website for Dragonfly as my Christmas present. If you love Dragonfly, please visit it. It is at the three w's, sensue, net, and then a slash, and then dmntr. I think she did a wonderful job and I hope you all enjoy it!

**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 22**

_Do you really want to feel it  
__Do you really want to see it  
__Do you really want to know it all  
__Show it all  
_'_Cause we do What we do  
__Yes, it's true._

_--Do You Really Want to Feel It, Fragma_

**Now:  
**_May 15__th__, Louisville, KY_

The x-ray machine came and went, followed soon after by Dr. Boroughs. Smiling at Dean she told him, "You've just bruised your ribs and there are no signs of fractures anywhere else. I can't be sure without an MRI if there's been any damage to your hand and arm. I'd rather let your reconstructive surgeon make that call, but I don't see anything overt. Let me give you a final once over and then I'll wrap your ribs."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "That was fast. I figured it would take half the night to get the x-rays developed and read."

"I had yours made a priority because I just wanted to come see you again. Not often I get such a handsome young man in here," she said winking at him, then gave a nod toward Darling. "I usually get stuck with men like him."

"That's got to suck," Dean said, grinning at Darling, then bringing his gaze back to her. "No wonder you're still single."

Dr. Boroughs laughed. "Absolutely." She kept her smile but sobered a little as she slid on gloves. "I'm going to recheck your abdomen now, Taz. Is that okay?"

She waited for Taz to give her the go ahead. Even with his permission to touch him, he still jumped when she pressed on his abdomen. She didn't feel anything unusual other than some definable tension likely due to her presence, but turned a more critical eye on her patient. The blow to his ribs might have caused some internal damage that was just now manifesting itself. That was part of the reason she was giving him a final once over.

Concerned, but still not finding anything, she asked, "What hurts?"

Sighing, Dean shrugged. "Nothing. Nothing new anyhow. I just—I just don't like being touched. And besides, your gloves are freaking cold."

"Are you sure? I thought I was going to have to peel you off the ceiling there for a minute."

"I'm fine, Doc," Dean insisted.

She pressed and palpated but nothing seemed wrong. Reluctantly she accepted his denial. After methodically double-checking his bandages and satisfying herself he had no injuries other than those she previously noted, she told him, "Lean forward, Taz, and I'll get your ribs wrapped."

Dean leaned forward slowly, his back aching from both the abrasions and the bruises. Forcing himself to straighten so she could wrap his ribs properly, he winced at the twinge he felt in his side. He would be glad to have his ribs taken care of.

"You've done this before," she said as she opened the package of bandages she needed.

Glancing at her, he scowled. "You saw the x-rays, didn't you? That's a 'duh' if I ever heard one. I've broken a few ribs and bruised them a handful of times, too."

She sighed as she began tightly wrapping his ribs, noting how he swayed away from her as she leaned close to get the wrap around the far side of his ribs. "Taz, I believe you that your father hasn't abused you but has someone else? I worked in New York City for a long time and you've seen rougher times than many of the kids I saw in the hospital where I worked and it was in one of the worst sections of town."

Dean's lips pressed into a thin line as he met her steady gaze. "You want the truth? Fine," he snapped. "My dad's a hunter. I've been helping him now for a few years. Sammy and I have had our share of encounters. The pit bull I was attacked by? Wasn't a pit bull. It was a black dog. Tore the hell out of me. The long scars down my back were courtesy of a wendigo. Had half a dozen creatures nail me through the years. Been thrown through a few windows, including a car window, fell into a fire once—but that was just me and Caleb horsing around, and I got shot once. The rest? A lot are thanks to the Dementors. I'd take a pack of fucking black dogs to those bastards."

"What are you talking about? What sort of hunter? What's a wendigo?" Dr. Boroughs asked, confusion plain in her eyes.

The challenge left Dean's face and he laughed softly as he waved his hand in dismissal. "Don't strain your brain, Doc. It doesn't matter. If I tried to explain, you'd just think I was crazier than you think now. Nothing's abused me but my way of life and our sucky Winchester luck." He felt her tug the wrap a little tighter and then pin it in place. After she was done, he touched her arm to draw her attention. "I appreciate your concern, Dr. Boroughs, I do, but really, if I weren't," he paused, cringing at the thought, "headed to the cracker factory, it would be more than safe for me to rejoin my family."

She moved to lay her hand on his shoulder but he jerked back. "I know you have to examine me, but otherwise, I'd prefer you didn't touch me, Doc. Don't want your sympathy either."

No sympathy. Yes, she learned to hide her empathy when working at her job in New York. A lot of the rougher crowd reacted badly, even explosively, to sympathy. It had taken some time to learn she could show sympathy to patients in Louisville. Her boss had dinged her on her bedside manner the first year and a half she was here. A little girl who lost both her parents in a car accident desperately needed someone to tell her that she was going to be okay and just to have someone to hold onto. The little girl was so frightened that it finally got through to her. She stayed with the little girl as long as she could and then made certain someone stayed with her until her grandparents made it in from Oklahoma. Looking at Taz's face and his haunted eyes, she knew she made the right choice leaving New York City. She didn't miss seeing the anguish she saw in his eyes now.

Letting her hand drop away from him, she was unsure of what else she could offer him that might help. "Do your ribs feel better?"

Dean nodded and looked into his empty coffee cup. He shifted his gaze to Darling and inverted his cup. "Dude, you suck as a waitress. I'm outta coffee."

"That's because you have bad manners," Darling shot back.

After a moment of consideration, Dean dredged up the absolute most pathetic look he could manage. He knew he did not have Sammy's God-given talent for the puppy dog eyes, but he wasn't a bad actor. "Please Mr. Policeman, sir. I'd like some more."

Both Dr. Boroughs and Officer Darling broke into laughter. Darling shook his head. "Okay Oliver. Arms in restraints. Then I'll refill it."

His pleading look disappeared and Dean huffed his annoyance. "C'mon. I've been good!"

"And you tried to jump off a bridge." He held up two fingers for emphasis. "Twice."

"Two little mistakes and they hold it against you forever," Dean muttered.

"There you go. Being the comedian again, Taz. C'mon. No restraints, no coffee. That's the rule."

"The rules suck, too," Dean muttered as he laid his wrists on top of the restraints.

Dr. Boroughs wished she could leave his hands free, but Darling was right. Fastening the restraints, she was unable to keep the sympathy from her voice as she said, "I know this has to be hard on you."

As she finished sliding the strap under the bar on the second restraint,

Taz met her gaze. The hurt in those soft green eyes faded and a dark and deadly anger took its place. She had seen anger of that depth rarely, but when she had it had always been in people that were capable of almost anything. She took an involuntary step back.

"That would be one word for it, Doctor," he growled. He saw the shadow of fear cross her face and he managed a perfunctory smile. "Chill, Doc. I'm not gonna hurt anyone."

A muscle in Dean's jaw tightened and he took a long, slow breath. Softly, he said, "I was beaten, tortured, hunted, betrayed, watched a girl split open with my knife, and was framed for her rape and murder. They…" he paused, tried, but couldn't get the word "rape" out when it came to himself, "did what they did to me. Each of them. In their own way. Except when they hunted me, I was restrained, helpless. I had to watch as they raped my brother. My twelve year old little brother!" Dean's voice rose in volume at the end. He pulled once or twice at the restraints and he fought to slow his breathing back down. He wasn't going to hyperventilate, dammit. Dean shut his eyes for moment and after his breathing was back under control he managed to continue, his voice once again quiet. "Then my father abandoned me to the cracker factory and their restraints and their drugs. 'Hard' doesn't even come close to how I feel about willingly letting you restrain me. Especially seeing as how my dad's coming here to probably take me back to the cracker factory, leave me there, and with enough time, I'll be…" he choked back his sob, "forgotten."

She saw a single tear escape from the corner of one eye as complete and utter defeat enveloped him. "I'm lost. I'm broken," he whispered. "But don't worry, Doc," Dean said, his voice regaining some strength. "I keep my promises. I told you I'll be the best little cooperative patient you've ever had if you leave my hands free to drink my coffee and eat my M&Ms. It helps. A little. To have my hands free. I don't feel quite so helpless. I really appreciate what is probably on the edge of you breaking hospital rules. I won't make you regret it."

The doctor started to reach out to wipe away his tear but Dean turned his head away from her outstretched hand. "I still don't like to be touched." He didn't look at Darling as he asked, "May I please have some more coffee, now, Officer?"

"Sure thing, Taz," Darling said, his eyes filled with sorrow from Taz's heart-rending admission of the traumatic events he had so recently endured.

Darling and Dr. Boroughs walked out together. The doctor sank into the first chair she came to. She felt almost sick. She had learned to steel herself in New York and not let it get to her, though sometimes it still did. She didn't think it would matter if she was in her old life or this new one. Taz would have gotten to her there as readily as he did here. "I've seen a lot of troubled kids. I've seen a lot of horrible things done to kids. But that boy in there…" she shook her head, unable to finish.

Giving her shoulder a squeeze, Darling said, "I know. You just want to take him in your arms and protect him from his past. But he won't even let you touch him. And if you were to leave him even partially unrestrained without me there, I wouldn't be surprised to see him escape the restraints and try to kill himself, or just plain run, running until he found a quiet dark corner where he could take his own life. Believe me, he's not the sort to make the same mistake twice. It won't be a bridge the next time. It'll be a dark alley and a chunk of broken glass along his wrists."

She nodded, finding tears in her eyes. "I know," she whispered.

"Officer Darling?" an orderly asked. "There's someone in the emergency room asking for you. A Mr. Winchester?"

"Thanks. I'll be right there."

Darling returned to Taz's room and stuck his head in. Taz was still staring at the wall looking miserable. Announcing the arrival of John Winchester probably wasn't going to help. Darling hoped Taz's little brother was present to ease the tension. "Taz, I'll be back in a minute with your coffee, okay? I have to go take care of something."

"He's here, isn't he?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yes."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean said, tugging absently at the leather straps holding him. He turned his now emotionless eyes on the officer. "Do me a favor, pull up the blanket to cover these restraints?"

The cold and empty look on Taz's face and in his eyes were in bitter contrast to the Taz Darling had been talking to ten minutes prior when they were joking back and forth. The kid had an emotional hair trigger, not that Darling blamed him.

After pulling up the blanket and making sure as best he could that the restraints were hidden, Darling did what Taz wouldn't let the doctor do. He wiped away Taz's tear with a quick brush of his thumb. "Need anything else?" Darling asked.

Dean shook his head mutely.

Darling gave Taz's arm a squeeze. "If it gets too much, you just say the word. I can put an immediate end to visiting hours."

Responding with a weak smile, Dean merely nodded.

After a final pat on Taz's arm, Darling walked out to the waiting room to meet the father. He wasn't sure what he was feeling. A part of him wanted to lay into the guy for taking his son to a psychiatric hospital and just leaving him there. Then he recalled Taz saying he hadn't even been there a full day. The father _had_ sounded beside himself when Darling talked to him. Best he reserve judgment until he actually met the man.

"Mr. Winchester?" he called out as he pushed through the swinging doors leading to the ER's waiting room.

A cluster of deeply worried, exhausted looking men, each holding a cup of coffee, sat near the door. With them sat a young teenager equally concerned, his gaze fixed on the doors Darling had just entered by.

The oldest of the men was a dark-haired, well groomed man sporting a moustache. One look at his clothing and the air he had about him told Darling the man had money. He was the type that drove a respectable silver Mercedes or another car that surely cost more than Darling made in a year. Beside him sat a likewise dark-haired man in jean's and a flannel shirt, probably in his twenties, who suspended his conversation with the young teen next to him. The man's eyes were intense and the hair on the back of Darling's neck prickled under his scrutiny.

The young teenager with emotional hazel eyes and disheveled brown hair had a paperback book tucked under his arm. One hand clutched a see-through bag from a gas station that held peanut M&Ms, and an opaque bag from a fast food restaurant. In the other hand was a shake and, judging from the pink Darling saw under the lid, it was strawberry. Darling would have marked Taz for a chocolate lover what with the M&M fetish he had. He had absolutely no doubt the food was for Taz. The boy's face was a reflection of fear, fatigue, and hope.

A man in his late thirties to early forties who looked worn by time, his dark eyes pain-filled but hopeful sat close to the teen. His hands were callused and scarred, and the clothes he wore suggested this man didn't have money. That, Darling knew, was surely John Winchester. The look on his face was definably one of a distraught father. The final man in the cadre was the most relaxed of the men, a well-dressed blond likely in his late twenties. His shirt was designer and while he seemed interested in the events happening around him, Darling didn't get that same sense of concern that flowed from the others.

The only wedding ring worn belonged to the man Darling marked as Taz's father. The young teen was surely Sammy and the twenty-something man by the teen was perhaps Caleb, the best friend Taz spoke of. Darling had expected Caleb to be closer to Taz's age, so he might be wrong in that assessment. All of the men but the father, Darling noted, wore identical silver rings on their right index fingers.

All jumped to their feet anxiously save for the blond who took his time in standing. The man Darling marked as Taz's father rested his hand on the teen's shoulder and stepped forward, the teen staying at his side.

"Officer Darling?" the man asked.

Darling immediately decided the father cared deeply about his son's welfare and that eased his concern significantly. He had been toying with the idea of calling in Social Services, but one look at John Winchester's profound worry, his gauntness, and the dark circles under the man's eyes, told Darling the boys were loved. Still, he would watch how the family interacted to confirm this belief, but he hoped John Winchester's affection was genuine and the scars Taz carried weren't the work of an abusive father. No matter what Taz said, Darling needed to be absolutely certain.

Smiling, Darling said, "Yes sir." He spoke to the boy beside John. "You must be Sammy, and I'm betting those M&Ms are for Taz—you brother."

Sam nodded, a shy smile on his face as the boy shifted a little closer to John. "Will they let him have them? We brought him dinner, too. He's got to be hungry."

Darling chuckled. "He's been demanding peanut M&Ms and coffee all night long and they've let me give him both, so I'm sure he can have another pack if he wants more. I don't know about the fast food."

"He's spoken to you?" John said, surprise in his dark eyes.

Darling wondered at the surprise and then thought back to the ambulance ride. He attributed Taz's reluctance to talk with the medics to his vehement desire to avoid the hospital. While Taz spoke with Dr. Boroughs it mostly was only as necessary. Remembering the report on what happened to Taz and the conversations they held during the evening, Darling decided John's startled look was reasonable. "He's had his moments of talkativeness. I think he's scared, and being alone for a few weeks on the streets can make a young man hunger for conversation. Even with the 'last resort.'"

John frowned a little, then winced. "I guess he has talked to you," he said. If Dean explained why the family gave that moniker to the police, he feared Social Services might be on their way. They were the last thing he needed to deal with tonight.

Darling saw the flicker of embarrassment and apprehension in John. "As I told you on the phone," Darling said, "he feels you abandoned him at the mental institution and isn't anxious to talk to you. He's agreed to, mostly because he's hoping to see his little brother." Darling smiled again at Sam.

A pained look crossed John's face. "I handled his admission to the hospital all wrong. When he had another violent episode at the hospital, they went against doctor's orders and sedated and restrained him. Lord, I never would have left him if I thought he was going to have another episode. He's never had two in one day." John sighed deeply. "I just don't understand it."

After a moment of hesitation, Darling offered, "He said the psychiatric hospital smelled of the gang leader."

Scowling, John shook his head. "I don't know how that—"

Sam's eyes widened as he suddenly made the connection. "Cologne, Dad. Juarez reeked of cologne. I think he marinated in it. Or used it instead of taking a bath." Sam realized he, too, had been reacting to the smell, but it just made him feel like he was going to puke.

John thought back to the most recent time Dean was violent. They were in a store near the cologne and perfume area when Dean lashed out uncontrollably. At least one other time when Dean had panicked they were near the perfume counter. John exhaled and closed his eyes, Dean's outbursts having a modicum of sense to them now. He felt something inside him relax. His boy wasn't having random attacks of violence. He was striking out in fear.

"Thank you, officer." Relief was etched in John's rugged features. "That explains more than you can know."

Darling nodded to himself, suspecting the revelation might help. He had to work to get it out of Taz and if Taz hadn't been restrained, odds were good he would have bolted instead of talking. Darling's gaze swept over the men surrounding John. "I think we should limit his visitors to immediate family for the moment. He's still pretty shaken up."

John glanced over at Mackland and Caleb.

"We'll wait our turn," Mac said, urging John to go with the officer, taking John's empty coffee cup from him. "The presence of Caleb and myself has not exactly garnered the best response from Dean."

There was no arguing that point, John knew and after a grateful smile to them for their support he led Sam after the officer and into the patient area.

When they reached Taz's room, Darling rapped lightly on the half-open door. "You up for visitors, Taz?" he asked, leaning in.

Dean glanced from the TV over to Darling. His lips pursed and Darling thought for a moment the young man was going to refuse to see anyone.

"Is my brother here?" Dean finally asked, his voice emotionless.

"Yes," Darling said. "So's your father. You want to see them?"

Dean closed his eyes a moment, glad Sammy was here. If it had just been his dad, he wasn't sure what his answer might have been. He gave a curt nod to the waiting officer. Darling pushed the door open fully, walked in, and stepped aside.

John's heart pound in his chest, fearing that somehow the young man in the next room had been misidentified and when he looked through the doorway, it wouldn't be his son that he saw. He hesitantly stepped into the doorway, resting his hand lightly on the metal doorframe. The breath rushed out of him. It was Dean. His son was alive. His grip tightening on the doorframe, John forced himself to stay where he was. He wanted nothing more than to rush forward and embrace his lost son in his arms but reluctantly admitted to himself that Dean would not react well to that, so he stayed by the door.

John measured the young man in the bed who might have been hard to recognize to anyone but family. Dean's hair looked greasy and he had a bit of a beard growing. When had his son gotten old enough to be able to grow a beard? He hadn't thought Dean could have looked thinner than he had, but he did. Dean looked old and worn while at the same time, John saw him as so young and fragile.

"Hi, Ace," John said tentatively, he voice thick with emotion. He had to swallow hard before he could steady himself enough to get the words out. "How you feeling, Dude?"

Darling saw Dean's gaze shift from the doorway, blatantly ignoring John. That response wasn't atypical for an abused child and Darling felt his gut clench. Realizing he had become more protective of the boy than he thought, he knew he would be hard pressed not to find a way to make the man's life difficult if the man had hurt Taz. Taz had been through more than any kid should and Darling wished fervently that he could ease the young man's hurt.

"Big Brother!" Sammy cried and pushed his father out of the way so he could rush to Dean's side. He set the bags and shake on the tray, slid his hand through the rails, and placed his hand on Dean's arm. Relief and joy lit Sam's face.

The coldness in Dean evaporated instantly as he turned to his brother. The smile Dean flashed was bright and genuine. "Hey there, Runt. You staying out of trouble?"

"No," Sam said with a grin.

"That's my Sammy," Dean said with a chuckle.

A frown creased Sam's brow. Dean would always muss his hair when he said that, but Dean hadn't even moved his arm. With trepidation he lifted aside the blanket and saw the leather straps, aghast to find his brother was once again in restraints.

"No!" Sam shouted horrified and began tearing at the restraints, getting Dean's left wrist free in just a few seconds. He was down by Dean left leg when his father stepped forward. "Sam—"

Darling considered interceding and stopping Sam, but the restraints were there to keep Taz from running and to keep him from hurting anyone, including himself. He knew he ought to force Taz to keep the leg restraints on, but he didn't think Taz would run, not with Sammy here, and violence…possible, but Darling suspected Sam's presence would curtail any chance of that as well. Darling decided to stay where he was, watching the family dynamics.

Furiously Sam turned to his father shouting accusingly, "You let them do this to him! You made him run away! It's your fault!" Sam freed Dean's left leg, dodged around his father's reach and quickly got the next leg undone and then the right wrist. He practically threw himself into Dean's arms.

"You're free now. You're safe, Brother. I won't let them do that to you again," Sam said fiercely.

Ignoring the pain the weight of his little brother caused him, Dean closed his eyes and hugged the boy tightly, whispering. "Thanks, Sammy. I'm okay. Really."

Sam shook his head, still in his brother's embrace. "No, you're not."Although he kept his tears away, his voice still hitched. "You broke your promise again. You tried to kill yourself again." He didn't know what he would do if Dean died. The thought of facing the world without his big brother at his side was more frightening than anything.

Swallowing hard, Dean rocked Sam, resting his chin on top of his brother's head and breathing in the scent of his little brother. He barely kept his own tears at bay. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I guess I got kind of lost with out you."

"Didn't stop you from trying to kill yourself when I was at the farm with you, Dickhead," Sam said, pulling back to stare into his brother's haunted eyes. Tears were in Sam's eyes but he was determined not to cry. Dean wouldn't cry, so neither would he.

Dean gave a soft, sad chuckle. "No. It didn't."

"It's not funny! You keep trying to leave me. I need you! Why won't you let Caleb or Mac help you?" Sam begged.

"They're still in Africa," Dean said, scowling. His voice turned bitter. "How the hell can they help me when they're a continent away?" He desperately wished his best friend was with him to help him weather these terrible days. At the same time, the thought of Caleb seeing inside his head and discovering what he had done terrorized him. Dean could hardly bear the truth; how could Caleb?

Confusion replaced the hurt in Sam's eyes. "What are you talking about? They've been back for weeks, but every time Mac or Caleb try to get near you, you completely freak. Why won't you let them help you?" Sam asked again.

"He's not back…" Dean stopped mid-sentence, the memories trickling in. Sam begged him time and again to let Caleb help. Both times he'd tried to commit suicide at Pastor Jim's, Caleb or Mac had tried to get close to him earlier in the day, to get him to talk to them, and he was certain they had tried to get inside his head. He wasn't psychic, but he knew they had tried. So desperate that they not see any of it, he completely blocked out they had even been there.

Dean didn't say anything more. He pulled his brother back into his arms, holding him tightly.

John crossed the room to Dean's bedside. "Son," John said softly, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder, "I'm sorry." John didn't feel Dean flinch under his touch; it was the first time in weeks that Dean hadn't. He prayed that was a good sign.

Looking up at his father, Dean's eyes shone with tears. "It was all my fault, Dad," Dean whispered. "I failed Sammy. I failed you."

"Ace," John said, his face pained. "You didn't fail us. I'm the one who failed you. I wasn't there for you. I should have listened to you that the schools were dangerous. If I had, this never would have happened. I planned to get us out of there over Spring Break and all I could think was that within a few weeks we would be in a better place, even if I had to borrow money from Mac to do it. I saw the bruises on you and knew you weren't defending yourself because you didn't want to draw attention from anyone. I had faith the two of you could handle yourselves. I had no idea there was a _gang_ after you." He squeezed the back of Dean's neck and kept the accusation out of his tone, "Ace, you never told me that."

Misery colored Dean's face and he still clutched Sam close to him. "I didn't want you to worry. Besides, I was dodging them fine until I defended Isabelle." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I might as well have killed her myself. Maybe if I had stepped in but let them beat me up while she got away, maybe it never would have happened. I screwed up. I screw up everything."

John had to force himself to stay calm when all he wanted to do was shake his boy for such undeserving self-accusations. Dean blamed himself for so many things that were out of his control. And maybe John's harshness with him at times contributed to Dean's lack of self-esteem. How could he be such a rotten father? How could he be so much like his own father?

Trying to keep his voice steady, John offered his son reassurances as best he could. "I taught you to try to help those who needed it. You did the right thing," John said. "But sometimes doing the right thing is the most dangerous thing. I'm proud of you for trying to help her. You couldn't have known the gang would react like that. Deidersville was a new world for all of us. We've never dealt with gangs before, Ace." He grimaced. "I'm sorry I didn't take you to Jim's place."

Dean shrugged but the look on his face hadn't changed.

John watched his son, feeling like he just wasn't getting through to him. What more could he say? The hospital. He had to explain to Dean about the psychiatric hospital. "I'm sorry I took you to the hospital like I did. You needed a chance to calm down, to get your feet back under you; I didn't give you that." John flushed a little. "I didn't even tell you where we were going. I…I didn't know what else to do, Ace. You weren't getting any better and I'd been talking to Mac and to the hospital, and I really screwed up. I was going to be back in the morning with Sam and Mac and some of your things. They weren't supposed to restrain you or sedate you, Ace. You usually go to sleep after one of your…episodes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry they did that to you. I'm sorry _I _did that to you. I should have brought you home and got you ready to go to there, not just taken you there without warning."

Gently, John ran his hand over Dean's hair, then leaned down and embraced both his boys. He had to find a way to fix this. He couldn't stand seeing Dean, the one who was probably the strongest of the three of them, hurting so much. His precious little boy, almost a man now, but so lost in his pain that he couldn't find any place to turn to other than death. Losing his boy just wasn't acceptable and John would see to it, somehow, that Dean found his way back to them.

Looking at his broken son, fury and the need for vengeance burned in his blood. Just as soon as his boy was healing on the inside, John would make a few calls and slip off to Deidersville. Just for the night. After all, only demons could do such evil, vile things and if the black smoke didn't rise from those gang members when he killed them, well, they wouldn't be the first 'innocents' a hunter 'mistakenly' killed. Both his boys would rest easier. He certainly would.

Darling nodded to himself, satisfied that the relationship between the family members was not one of abuse. He had seen the interactions between an abuser and the abused before and Darling would bet his pension that John never laid a hand on either of his boys except for the occasional well earned swat on the butt, as Taz had said in the ambulance. Certain Taz would not be going anywhere with his family watching over him, he decided to leave Taz unrestrained, at least for now.

Darling wondered what Dr. Boroughs was going to do with Taz, whether admit him to the hospital to a normal room, or have him moved to the nearby psychiatric hospital. He hoped she would choose to admit Taz here, giving the teen's father a chance to make arrangements of his own. The last thing Taz needed was to be alone. The psychiatric hospital had limited visiting hours while here, Taz's family could stay with him twenty-four seven.

He watched the family a moment more then slipped quietly from the room.

Tears stung Dean's eyes as he hugged his father. It hurt so much inside him. Her screams, Sammy's cries, his shame…he wanted it gone. He wanted it erased and forgotten. There were only two people who could make that happen. But he feared that Caleb or Mac, once they saw inside Dean's head, once they saw what Dean had done, would be disgusted by his weakness and turn and walk away. If either did that—especially if Caleb did that— Dean knew the last shred of hope he clung to would turn to ash. He would simply crumble and there would be no coming back. He would simply bury his soul so deeply inside himself that not even Sammy would be able to coax him from his safe place.

"I love you Sam," Dean whispered softly to his brother. Just in case what he feared came to pass, he wanted Sam to know that. He needed to be sure Sam had no doubt that his brother loved him.

"I love you, too" Sam whispered back, fiercely hugging his brother. He wished he could do something that would make Dean stop hurting. Mac and Pastor Jim had gotten Sam to talk, a little piece at a time, about his own experiences with the Dementors. Watching his brother being raped and tortured had been the most terrible thing he had ever been forced to endure, worse even than what they did to Sam himself. In his heart of hearts he knew the Dementors did something even more terrible to Dean after Sam escaped. What dreadful things had they done that had left his brother so broken when Sam was able to come through the experience more or less okay? Dean was so much stronger than he was!

Before Sam escaped, Dean didn't seem broken. He was still smarting off to Juarez. Sam had not left Dean alone that long had he? It took Sam maybe fifteen minutes to escape from the warehouse and the Dementors. It could not have been more than ten minutes to get to the mini-mart and call the police. Even if it felt like freaking forever, the police reached the warehouse and his brother within probably fifteen minutes? Forty minutes or less. In that time, though Sam hated to admit it, the Dementors had shattered his brother. Sam's tears finally trickled free while he was wrapped in Dean's arms. If only he'd been faster maybe his brother wouldn't be broken!

Dean hugged his brother tightly, wincing at the jabbing pain in his side. Bruised ribs sucked out loud. He looked up at his father, his green eyes glistening. "I-" Dean began and had to clear his throat to get the words out. "I want to see Caleb," Dean finished, his voice shaky and thick. He felt his heart pound in his chest. He didn't want to see Caleb. Not really. He was terrified, but he couldn't keep living like this. Once Caleb and Mac saw what he did, they would abandon him in disgust. They would agree he wasn't worth saving and Dean could do what he had to. He hoped Caleb didn't actually tell Sammy or his father what he did, but just confirm it was for the best that Dean…_left_.

"You do?" John asked, shock reflected in his eyes as elation filled him. He knew that with enough traditional therapy and the right combination of prescriptions, Dean might eventually get better. But if Caleb or Mac could get close enough to Dean and Dean would let them in, there was true hope that his son might make a full and much more rapid recovery. He knew Dean would never really be the same no matter what, but if they could just get his son away from feeling his only choice was suicide, that would be a tremendous step in the right direction. He clutched his hope close to his heart. John wanted his boy back more than anything in the world. "Caleb is out in the waiting room."

Clearing his throat when he reached the doorway, Darling stepped back into the room. The huddled family's conversation stopped, and all turned their focus on the officer. "Dr. Boroughs says Taz will be admitted soon and put on a suicide watch, and, after the lab tests come back, more decisions can be made."

Sam raced to the foot of Dean's bed and stood challengingly between his brother and the officer. "You're not putting him back in those restraints. I won't let you!" Sam thought about the knife he had inside his coat. If Darling pushed the issue, the officer would discover just how good Sam was with it. No one was going to restrain his brother ever again.

Darling smiled to himself at the protectiveness the young teenager had for Taz. Apparently Sam didn't realize Darling had watched him free Taz a few minutes before. "It's not up to me, Sam." Darling said apologetically. "I'll speak with Dr. Boroughs and see if I can convince her to leave Taz unrestrained for awhile."

His eyes begging, Sam turned to his father. "You can't let them do it! You can't let them put him back in restraints. It's too much like-like…" Sam couldn't finish, remembering Dean tied to the chair, helpless.

"Calm down, Sam," John soothed and moved to his side. "I imagine if we stay with him, the doctor will feel comfortable enough to leave him unrestrained." He put a hand on either of Sam's shoulders and squeezed gently. "Trust me, Sam. We'll protect him. I promise, okay?"

Sam swallowed hard, flashed a glare at Darling, and then looked back up his father. He nodded once and straightened. He reminded himself he had to be the big brother now. He had to be the strong one. "Yes, sir. No one's going to hurt my brother again."

John smiled proudly at Sam. "That's right, Sam. No one."

As Dean watched his family, a flicker of regret passed through him. Sam shouldn't have to be his protector. It was his job to protect and take care of Sam, but he had fucked that up from here to hell and back. He didn't deserve Sam and he knew it. He shut his eyes and sighed to himself. Maybe if Caleb saw his terrible failure, maybe they would understand when he tried again and maybe they would let him go. Tonight wasn't the time for that, though. Dean wanted to spend a little time with his family, especially his brother. He was proud his brother had become strong and didn't need him anymore. His brother had suffered at the hands of the Dementors and survived it. _I guess I never gave Sammy enough credit,_ Dean thought.

Laughing bitterly to himself, he realized that while Sam had been made stronger, the Dementors had only proved how weak and worthless Dean really was.

The aroma of grilled burgers and steaming French fries finally caught Dean's attention and he reached over for the bag on the tray. He looked down inside and felt his stomach growl in anticipation.

"No pie?" Dean asked, a little crestfallen.

"They didn't have any," Sam said apologetically.

A smile tugged at Dean's lips. "That's okay Sammy. Next time you can bring me two."

The sadness flitted away from Sam's face and he nodded, beaming.

As Dean pulled out the burger, he said, "Just in case the doc won't let me eat I better inhale this now. I'm freaking starved."

Sam gave his father a triumphant "I told you so" look. John gave a nod, acknowledging Sam had been right.

Dean eyed the officer before opening the wrapper on the burger. He could see Darling was conflicted about him getting ready to chow down. "You going to stop me?"

After a moment of hesitation, Darling gave a half shrug. "Dr. Boroughs said you could have coffee and M&Ms. I don't see why she'd say you couldn't have that." He glanced out the door before pulling it shut and added, "Just eat fast, okay?"

Grinning, Dean tore free the waxy wrapper. Shredded lettuce tumbled onto the tray along with droplets of catsup and mustard and toasted sesame seeds. "Dude, you've never seen fast until you've seen me hungry."

"I have six siblings. I've seen fast. Believe me."

Dean took large bites of the burger, his eyes shutting in delight as he groaned. Extra onion, thick cheese, and a garden of lettuce and tomatoes; it tasted heavenly.

John looked on, pleased Dean showed an interest in food. He hadn't seen his son actually enjoy a meal so thoroughly since…before. About the only way his boy would eat anything since the Dementors was if Sam coaxed and bartered with him. That reluctance to eat had thinned his boy down horrendously. Even at the height of one of Dean's growth spurts John didn't think Dean had looked so thin. If Dean hadn't been so muscular before this happened, his son would likely be little more than skin and bone at this point. That was another spike of grief for him, reminding him again how badly he had failed his boys.

Inhaling the scent of the milkshake, Dean murmured, "Strawberries. Mmmm." Downing a quarter of the shake, Dean suddenly winced, putting his hand to his head as his breath hissed between his teeth.

Sam couldn't stop his laugh. "Brain freeze!"

"Shut up, Runt," Dean growled. The pain quickly subsided and he went back to his burger. He drank the shake with greater care all the while glaring at his gleeful brother, privately pleased to see his brother smile. Usually it was Sammy who was stupid enough to suck down a shake and get brain freeze and Dean always made fun of him for it. It was another reminder of the role reversal Dean found himself in.

Dean was almost finished with the hamburger when Dr. Boroughs opened the door and entered. She stopped short, seeing Dean eating. She tilted her head at Darling and gave him an accusing glare.

Raising his hands in platitude Darling said, "You let him have coffee and M&Ms. I figured you'd be okay with the burger, too." He smiled innocently at her.

Her eyes narrowed and she made sure it was clear he wasn't fooling her. The officer knew good and well the M&Ms were a bribe to keep the young man calm. He also knew that Dean shouldn't be allowed to eat until he was admitted and settled into a room. It was policy.

The doctor turned her glare onto Dean.

He grinned sheepishly at her. "I was hungry," he said around a mouthful of burger, unfazed by her annoyed look.

She scrubbed a hand over her face and shook her head. "Taz, you are a handful, aren't you?"

Dean shrugged as he stuck the last of the burger into his mouth. A flurry of possible retorts dashed into his mind, all alluding to the size of his manhood indeed being a handful, but before he even began to select one, the feel of _their _hands on him made him shudder instead. He tried to shove those ugly thoughts away and keep hold of happier ones, but all the happy ones seemed to have made themselves scarce.

"I didn't see this and I don't know anything about it," she said with a sigh, but saw the look change in Taz's eyes and wondered what had triggered the shift from amusement to revulsion. The mind could latch on to the tiniest thing and spin elation into depression in a split second. She decided it was best to let the change apparently go unnoticed. "You may remain unrestrained so long as your family stays with you and you stay cooperative. You screw up, and it's back in the restraints, Taz. Do I make myself perfectly clear on this? You argue, throw a fit, threaten, or even appear to threaten or bolt, and it's over."

"Got it," Dean said and took a swallow of the shake. He managed to find a little nip of happiness; the shake truly rocked.

Knowing how much the thought of returning to the psychiatric hospital upset Taz, Dr. Boroughs decided to side step their actual intent of transferring Taz in a few hours back to there. "We're still waiting on a few tests. Officer Darling," and she jerked her head toward the officer, "has agreed to sit sentinel until morning when some sort of resolution about you is decided. I'll be back to check on you in a bit." She turned and left, shaking her head as she pulled the door shut behind her.

Dean gave Darling a grateful look. "You don't have to stay. I'll be okay. My family's here and my best friend's out in the waiting room." Dean tried not to reveal his uneasiness at the thought Caleb was a few hundred paces away. He wondered if Caleb could pick up anything from him at that distance. He hoped not.

"Actually, Taz, I do have to stay," Darling said. "Until you're admitted, technically you're in police custody. If not me, someone else will be here. And I can guarantee they will at the least cuff you to the bed, family or no family."

"Oh. That would suck." Dean paused then offered the only thing he could to show his appreciation. "Uh, want some fries?"

Waving his hand in dismissal Darling laughed softly and said, "No, I'll be fine. You still want a coffee refill?"

Dean shook his head as he drank more strawberry shake. He swallowed his mouthful of half-melted shake and glanced toward his father. "But my Dad probably would. He can't go more than an hour without caffeine or he gets crankier than you."

John looked slightly embarrassed. "I'm okay, Officer."

"I'm cranky, am I?" Darling challenged Taz. "Then I think you owe me fifty cents for your M&Ms."

At Taz's raised eyebrows and the start of a protest forming on his lips, Darling turned to John. "It's no trouble, Mr. Winchester," Darling assured him. "They keep a full coffee pot in the break room. Black?"

"If you don't mind. Thank you. For everything," John said sincerely.

Darling gave him a smile and slight nod, then looked back at Taz. "Taz, you behave yourself. I'll be back in a minute. Don't screw up."

"I still have fries to eat. I'm not going to do anything but eat. And maybe beg for a restroom break? I think that coffee caught up with me. Between that and this stupid IV."

Darling glanced over at the silver bedpan on the nearby rack then at Taz's brother and father. "All right. Can you hang on a minute?"

Stuffing more ketchup-drenched fries into his mouth, Dean nodded.

After pouring a cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot, Darling grabbed a small can of Coke for Sam out of the fridge. The supplies were technically for the staff and ambulance crews or officers, but he didn't figure anyone would complain.

He paused at the doctor's side while she was reviewing some charts. "Taz needs to go to the restroom. I don't think he'd appreciate a bedpan what with his family in there. You need any more samples from him? What about the IV?"

Tapping her fingers on the counter, she gave him another glare. "You ask that now? After letting him eat?"

Darling grinned. "Hey, he dug in before I could stop him."

The laughter in his eyes was all too plain.

"Bullshit. You're a lousy liar," the doctor accused.

"Only around pretty women. Which is why I could never cheat on my wife. She'd know right away," he said with a wink. "So what about it? Can I take him down to the bathroom?"

She rubbed her eyes. "That kid _is_ a handful. If I break any more rules, I'm going to catch hell for it. His urine sample came back clean. They're still running his blood work. Yes, you can take him to the bathroom. Just carry the saline. You want me to send a nurse for that?"

Darling's countenance suddenly grew serious. "For all the kid's bravado he's still pretty rabbity. I think it's still best we limit his contact with strangers. I can do it."

Dr. Boroughs studied the officer for a minute. She knew a number of the officers, at least in passing. Most all were more often smiling than not, but Darling, he always had that mischievous twinkle in his eyes and he was one of the more charming of the officers. Heaven forbid if both he and his partner Pongo were there at the same time.

"He's lucky he got you," she said.

"Just doing my job," Darling said, brushing off the compliment.

"But you're going that extra mile."

Breaking into a grin, Darling tossed over his shoulder as he headed for Taz's room, "I only got in four miles instead of five before work. Had to get it in somehow."

He heard her laughter and smiled. Nudging the door open with his shoulder Darling carried the drinks into room seven and handed each to the respective person.

Sam grinned at him as he popped the top to the mini-can. "Thanks!"

"Well, that's a little bit of bribery, Sam. I know you're upset Taz is restrained, but when I take him to the restroom—it's down the hall—I'm going to have to cuff him. You understand?"

Sam's face darkened and he shifted his gaze to his brother. Hadn't Dean been through enough?

With an unconvincing smile, Dean said, "It's okay, Sammy. He'll cuff them in front. I can," he inhaled, "I can deal with that. Sort of."

Returning his gaze to Darling Sam asked. "Do you _have_ to?" His big hazel eyes pleaded with the officer to let Dean go unrestrained.

_What a look,_ Darling thought to himself. _Bet that kid could swindle gold from Scrooge. _Darling leaned over so he was eye-to-eye with Sam. "I'm sorry, Sam. Technically, I ought to have him cuffed to the bedrail since he's no longer in restraints and just hand him a bedpan to handle his business. I thought he might appreciate stretching his legs and something like privacy when using the restroom. The cost is, he's got to go cuffed." Darling measured the boy, trying to gauge if the young teen was going to accept those facts. "Do you understand?"

Turning to his father, Sam silently begged him to help.

John stepped up next to Sam. "I could take him, officer," John offered hopefully. "He won't go anywhere."

A soft sigh whispered from Darling as he straightened. He was willing to bend the rules, but not when it might risk someone's life. No matter what Taz or his family said, Taz was a high flight risk. If the kid got away and succeeded where he had failed before, Darling wouldn't forgive himself. Besides, this rule wasn't one he was willing to break. "Sir, you know I can't do that. He's in police custody."

Hesitating a moment, John confirmed his understanding. Even so, he wanted his son to know he was willing to pursue another compromise if Dean just couldn't deal with it. "You sure, Ace?"

What was Dean suppose to say? Hell, no, he didn't want cuffed anymore than he wanted put back in those god-awful restraints. So he got to destroy what little dignity he had left by pissing in a tin can? No. And he really did like the idea of getting out of the bed. It might help him shake the feeling that he was still restrained even though he wasn't. "Yeah. I'll be okay. And I don't think Darling here wants to hold it for me so he'll have to cuff my hands in front."

Darling refocused on the younger brother. "What about you, Sam? You okay with this?"

Sam lips twitched and his gaze fell from the officer. "No. But I understand," he reluctantly said.

"He promised me he'd behave. He said he always keeps his promises. Does he?" Darling asked.

Sam gave a shrug, still not looking up. "He tries to. Usually."

"Sammy!" Dean groaned. He looked at Darling, fearing Darling would renege on his offer. "I'm not going to give you any problems. I _swear_."

The officer studied the youth. He really didn't think Taz would try to bolt, not with his family there, but he wanted Taz to think he was having doubts. He figured that would make the teen tow the line that much more, and with the way Taz could rocket from one extreme to the other, even a little edge could help if things went south. After a moment Darling stepped over and lowered the bedrail. "All right, Taz. You best not. I don't give second chances on stuff like this. Hands front and center, kiddo."

Resignedly Dean held his wrists out. He winced when Darling snicked the cuffs closed.

"You need help getting off the cot?" Darling asked.

"Falling on my face wouldn't do a lot for my reputation, now would it?" Dean said and let the officer help him down. "Would it have killed you to let me get out of the cot before you cuffed me?"

"You think I'm going to let you hit the floor without the cuffs, Taz? Hah."

John watched on in amazement. His son let the man touch him and didn't flinch? Moreover, Dean accepted the offered help without any argument? And he was bantering with the officer like John hadn't heard in far too long. Maybe Dean was finally finding his way home to them.

The officer pulled the saline bag off its hook. "Restroom is down the hall about fifty paces."

His face reddening, Dean paused. "Uh, Dude, I'm feeling breeze. Dad, uh, would you mind tying my gown closed?"

John was startled his son asked _him_ for help rather than Sam. He almost spilled his coffee in his haste to set it aside. When he got to Dean he saw the wrapped ribs, the bruises, and the scrapes the doctor hadn't needed to bandage covering Dean's back, but was silent as he quickly tied the gown. That explained why Dean didn't ask for Sam. He didn't want Sam to see his newest collection of injuries.

"Better?" John asked, still pleased that Dean needed him, even in just such a small thing.

"I'm in a hospital gown," Dean groused. "No such thing as keeping one's pride but better than walking down the hall mooning everyone."

His answer made John smile. He sounded so much like the old Dean.

Dean's unsteady gait and definable limp made Sam step forward worriedly. "Brother?" Sam asked.

"Just banged the shit out my knee, Sammy. Or rather jerkwad here played football hero and tackled me on my second run for the goal. Getting slammed onto concrete sucks out loud," Dean complained.

"Yeah, Taz, not so easy on my knuckles either. And you keep up the name calling and I _will_ cuff you to the bed."

Smirking, Dean continued his slow walk out the door, following the officer's directions to the restroom. At the restroom door Dean looked up at him. "I don't suppose there's a hook in there for that IV?"

"Sorry, no. And remember? Suicide watch? You're just lucky the doc let me do this. This is about as close to breaking the rules as she can get without getting hung, and that's only because you're still in my custody and I could push the matter. If your family wasn't here and if I didn't sympathize with you, you would be using a bedpan. So now, any complaints?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I guess not," he said as they both went into the bathroom.

After Dean finished his business and washed his hands, they walked back toward the room. Softly, Dean said, "Thanks. I appreciate all the extra trouble you're going to for me. I—I guess you really figure I'm screwed up, huh?"

Darling shrugged. "You told me that you feel broken. I can't put humpty-dumpty back together again, but I'll do what I can. Seems to be something you need right now. Someone giving you that little extra helping hand."

His head bowed, Dean stopped. "I'm not—I didn't use to be like this. I would have blown you and your offer of help off, probably with some creative cussing."

"You're scared. You're uncomfortable around your family. You're a little confused. I'm a known factor. You know I won't take shit from you," Darling said simply.

"I'm not scared," Dean snapped.

"Bullshit, Taz. You're one-hundred percent totally freaked. I'm a cop. Reading people is part of the job. You've had a damned rough night. I'd be scared shitless if I were you. You've done things so far against your nature, I'm more than just a little impressed. Kid," Darling put his hand lightly on Taz's shoulder and felt Dean flinch slightly under his touch, "it's not an insult for me to say you're scared. Everyone gets scared. Even being scared, you're carrying on. That speaks volumes about your character."

Dean looked contemplative for a moment then gave sharp nod. "Okay. Now get your fucking hand off my shoulder. Please."

Darling laughed softly and followed Dean back to room seven.


	23. Chapter 23

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators nor considered part of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the types of topics found in this story, but they did express to me support of the completion of this story.

For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

My apologies for the long delay. Home remodeling sucks out loud.

If you are a fan of Dragonfly, please visit w w w sensue net/dmntr/

**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 23**

_I know it hurts  
__And I know you feel torn  
__But you never gave up  
__This easily before  
__So why do you choose today  
__To give it all away_

—_No Giving Up, Crossfade_

**Then:  
**_April 1, Deidersville, Illinois_

John's throat was raw from talking to his unresponsive son most of the night. Sam would be arriving soon and John didn't have any idea what he was going to say to him. He knew in his heart it wasn't his fault, but his head told him otherwise. Maybe if Sam had been there, maybe if he hadn't said Dean's name, maybe, maybe, maybe…

The doctors had tried returning Dean's medication levels to what they had been, but when Dean woke in the middle of the night, he was still just as lost inside himself. Nightmares had plagued the teen most of the night and John could do little but hold his hand and tell him he was safe. When Dean was awake, his empty eyes stared off into nothingness and John felt completely helpless. He tried talking, reading, telling stories, singing, even using his sternest fatherly command voice, but nothing brought any spark of life into Dean's vacant eyes.

John hadn't left Dean's side; irrationally he feared that if he did he might return to find his son had not only withdrawn, but that he had given up on life completely. Whenever John dosed off, he awoke with a start, his gaze shifting to his son, praying it was all a nightmare and that Dean would be smirking at him, ready to crack some joke. Instead, the waking was the nightmare.

Around one PM, Boone leaned in from his station out in the hallway. "John, Sam's here."

John pushed himself wearily to his feet. He was at his rope's end. Sam and Dean had a special connection, one he fostered to help keep them both safe. Maybe that special connection would give Sam that extra leverage to reach Dean when nothing and no one else could.

Sam walked up the hall excitedly, hoping Dean had made even more progress over the past few days. His last telephone conversation with Dean had worried him a little, but he just figured Dean was having a bad day yesterday. In one hand he clutched a bag that held two blueberry muffins and a supersized bag of peanut M&Ms and in the other he held a slowly melting strawberry shake. Dean couldn't resist strawberry shakes and if he was having a bad day, nothing made it better like ice cream. Seeing his father come out of Dean's room, Sam broke into a grin. That grin vanished when he saw the look on his exhausted father's face and he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Dean? He's-he's okay, isn't he?" Sam stammered, fearing Dean's health had taken a turn for the worse. Or the Dementors? Had they gotten to him? Why hadn't his father called him?

John didn't trust himself to speak and shook his head. His eldest was anything but okay.

Paling, Sam rushed by his father and into Dean's room. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor immediately eased his concern. Sam's gaze swept over his motionless brother. Nothing looked out of place or overtly wrong. The casts that Sam had drawn on were intact, the IV was in place, the head of the bed was elevated some, and a sheet along with a cotton blanket were pulled partway up Dean's chest. Sam froze when he saw Dean's face; it looked relaxed, almost as if he were sleeping, but Dean's eyes were open and frighteningly glassy. Sam's gaze flicked over to the heart monitor, confirming Dean's heart was really beating and he was breathing at a steady and normal pace. So why did Dean's eyes look…dead?

"Big Brother?" Sam asked tentatively.

Dean didn't look at Sam or even acknowledge his presence.

Sam went to his bedside. "Big Brother, c'mon. What's wrong?" Setting the shake and bag aside on the nearby table, he clutched Dean's hand and was shocked to find it limp and lifeless. Sam reached up and turned Dean's head to face him. The vacant stare frightened Sam to his core.

"Big Brother, what's wrong?" Sam bit his lip, remembering the discussion he overheard late one night long ago between his father and Mackland about Dean's catatonic state when he was only four. That was the reason the Winchesters had met Mac and Caleb in the first place. Dean had hidden inside himself because he refused to deal with the trauma of their mom's death. Sam stared at Dean wide-eyed. Had his brother finally remembered and just as when he was four, decided to hide instead of face it? Sam felt the anger war with the fright that filled him. No! His brother was ten times stronger than he was and he was doing okay, except for the nightmares and not liking people behind him or touching him, but he was getting through each day. Dean should be too! How could Dean just hide inside himself when Sam needed him? Hadn't his dad and Mac said when Dean was four that he had been like that for months?

"Don't you dare leave me!" Sam yelled at his brother. "Don't you dare! You're stronger than this and I need you! Big Brother, don't you dare leave me alone!" Sam shoved the bed railing down and stared into Dean's eyes. "Get your jerkface, dickhead self back out here!" he demanded. When Dean's eyes remained lifeless Sam put his head on Dean's chest and hugged Dean to him. The steady beating of Dean's heart did nothing to comfort him. What good was a heartbeat without the soul that gave it a reason to beat? "Please, Big Brother," he whispered brokenly, "don't make me go through this by myself. Dad made me tell the police everything. I didn't want to but I had to. I thought maybe if I did they could arrest the Dementors and then you would be safe from them. I wanted you by me so bad. I wanted you tell me it was all going to be okay, just like you always do even if you're lying through your teeth. I need you, Jerk. I don't—" Sam's breath hitched as he tried to stop himself from crying. "I can't get through this without you." Tears slipped down Sam's face anyhow as he clutched his brother to him.

Feeling Dean pull his arm out from between them and rest it on Sam's back, pulling Sam just a little closer, made the younger boy breathe a sigh of relief. Easing his hold on Dean, he berated himself for being so stupid. Dean wouldn't go away like that, not when Sam needed him so badly. Dean was always there for him, would always be there for him.

Then he felt Dean's arm slip off his back.

Sam pulled away and looked at Dean's face. Nothing had changed. There was still nothing but the dead glassy look in Dean's dull green eyes.

"No!" Sam yelled at him. "Stop being a jerk!"

He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and shook him. "Don't you go away!"

"Sam," John started to say, moving to stop his youngest from unintentionally hurting Dean. He got as far as putting his hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam whirled on him and pushed him away. "Leave us alone!" Sam snarled at his father, not really seeing who it was and not caring.

After a moment of hesitation John decided to give Sam more time to reach Dean. He backed off but stood ready to intercede if he had to.

Sam turned back to his brother and grabbed his hand. "I need you. Please," Sam begged.

Dean's eyelids slid closed and slowly opened a moment later. Sam saw Dean's eyes lose the hundred yard stare and focus on his face but the green eyes remained void of emotion. His words were barely above a whisper that Sam had to strain to hear.

"It hurts. Let me go, Sammy. Just let me just go."

"No!" Sam insisted. "I don't care how much it hurts. You're Captain One Helluva Big Brother and you can get through _anything_."

"No, I can't," Dean murmured.

"Yes, you can!" Sam said. "I'll help. I'll protect you like you always protect me. I'll keep you safe. I'll make it better. I swear I'll find a way to make it better. Just stay with me. You have to stay with me." Finishing in a desperate whisper Sam said, "I'll die without you, Big Brother. I'll die."

A slight spark of life returned to Dean's eyes as he wiped at the stray tear that ran down Sam's young face.

"Stop crying like a girl," Dean told him as he decided that for his brother he would face anything. Even…them. He shuddered, but didn't retreat into the depths of his mind, no matter how much he wanted to. Sammy needed him. At least for now.

John sagged against the doorframe where he had retreated to give Sam the space the boy needed, relieved that Sam had been able to do what he couldn't: draw Dean back from his darkness.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Doctor Lassiter?" John asked hesitantly from the office doorway, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. When John had ordered a furious Sam back to the farm the next day, Dean once again retreated to his own private world. At a loss, John asked the hospital psychiatrist to see Dean.

"Your son has acute stress disorder, a severe case of it," the psychiatrist told John, waving him to sit down in a chair across from his desk. "Often this condition will correct itself after a short period of time, though it can take a month or so. It isn't uncommon for a patient to shift over from acute stress disorder to post-traumatic stress disorder along with associated depression, risk of suicide and other problems." Dr. Lassiter flipped through the thin file he had on the teen. "I've tried every trick I know to draw him out, but he must choose to communicate and he simply doesn't want to.

"I'm reluctant to prescribe anything for him at this time considering the drugs he's already on due to the injuries he incurred." The doctor shrugged helplessly. "Mr. Winchester, until your son is ready to deal with the terrible things that happened to him, it is unlikely his mental state will improve. You said your younger son can coax him from his withdrawn state?"

Shrugging, John sighed. "Dean has always looked after Sammy. He's very protective of him. Sam can get him talking but only for short periods of time. Then Dean just drifts away again." John scrubbed his face with his hand, frustrated. He hated feeling so damned helpless. If only Mac or Caleb…there was no sense reiterating that, he told himself. It wouldn't change anything. They weren't here and wouldn't be any time soon. He had to find a way himself to help his boy. He failed both his sons once already and almost lost them. Sam seemed to have gotten his feet back under him so now John just needed to figure out a way to help Dean. Something, anything. He was Dean's father, dammit and there had to be something he could do instead of standing around watching his boy wither away. The doctor began speaking again, snapping John's attention back to him.

"You need to keep the two boys together," Dr. Lassiter told him. "Anything to help keep Dean grounded in the world of reality, no matter how briefly, will help. The longer he stays withdrawn, the harder it will be for him to recover."

John shook his head. "The Dementors are after both my boys. I sent Sam away to keep him safe. Dean is in no condition to be moved, and," John paused, reigning back his frustration and anger, "he is a suspect in the rape and murder of a young woman."

The man's breath hissed from him. He'd dealt with more than a few traumatized patients thanks to the violent gang. "I would guess the police haven't been able to get a statement from Dean?'"

John nodded wearily. "He's really only been aware of where he was twice. The first time he didn't remember anything. The second time he did and that's when he…went into hiding." John rose to his feet and started pacing the small office. "He did the same thing when Mary, his mother, died."

"He's done this before?" Dr. Lassiter asked, startled, sitting up straighter. That hadn't been in the teen's file.

"He was four. Took a while for the doctor to get him to come back out. Took another year or so for Dean to start acting like a kid should. At least around anyone other than Sammy and me."

"It might help if I could get those records and talk with the psychiatrist who helped him then," the doctor said. If he could lay hands on that information, he could find out how the previous doctor had reached the boy. Perhaps he could recreate the necessary factors and get the young man moving towards recovery.

Jon grimaced. He certainly couldn't tell the doctor Mackland was psychic and used his telepathic talents to draw Dean out. "He's in Africa. We're trying to track him down now."

"His office could fax over the records," the psychiatrist suggested.

"He's retired," John lied. Mackland was a neurosurgeon, not a psychiatrist, and he knew Mac kept records of anything to do with Caleb's and his talents but those records would hardly be useful to the psychiatrist. Unlike Mac, the doctor could hardly go in telepathically and "fix" his boy as Mac had done.

Dr. Lassiter gave a curt nod. If he did not have access to the teen's records, then so be it. "You say he's a suspect in a girl's rape? Was Dean's fluids the only ones found in her?"

"No," John said. "she had multiple partners and she was tortured just as Dean was."

Dr. Lassiter made a few notes on Dean's records. "If Dean is charged, your lawyer should be able to make an argument for consensual sex, with the rape occurring after. That they were both tortured supports that as a possibility. Even so, if he is charged with rape and murder, in his current condition he'll be found incompetent to stand trial and if found guilty could be remanded to a state institution."

"No!" John said, turning to face the psychiatrist, his dark eyes flashing and his rugged face set with determination. "I won't stand by and let them send my boy away."

The doctor wasn't surprised by the man's reaction to the news, but was glad to see Mr. Winchester was willing to try to protect and help his son. He had dealt with far too many patients whose parents seemed indifferent or unwilling to support their children. In many cases they just were too busy eking out a living and taking care of their other children to give the sick child the help and attention needed to get the child through the trauma. "Mr. Winchester, you need to bring your youngest here and have the police take Dean's statement. If Sam can bring Dean around long enough to speak with them, it might help both Dean to talk about it and the police to pursue their case against the perpetrators. Have the police bring in their psychiatrist. He'll be able to quickly diagnose Dean's mental state, and I'll provide him with my findings. With any luck, Dean will be coherent enough to give and sign a statement. It may not change anything, but it is worth the effort."

"I won't force him to testify," John growled.

"He's under 18. That's your choice. In his current state, his testimony in court, even if he was lucid enough to testify, would be looked upon with some doubt."

John squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. "Thank you, doctor," he murmured.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The next morning Bobby and Jim loaded Sam up and they were back on their way to see Dean by eight AM.

As soon as Sam finished breakfast, Pastor Jim told him to pack his things for at least a one night stay, maybe two, back in Deidersville. Sam hadn't been given a chance to ask any questions as Jim shooed him off, telling Sam they would explain in the car. Sam had tried to wait patiently for Jim or Bobby to tell him what was going on, but he just couldn't wait any longer. Ten minutes was quite long enough as far as Sam was concerned.

"Dean's okay, right?" Sam asked worriedly.

"You're daddy said he was the same," Bobby said as he adjusted the car's heater now that the engine had warmed up. He was looking forward to Spring and its warmer, if wet, weather.

"Then how come we're going back so soon?" Sam asked, adding hastily, "not that I'm complaining. I didn't want to leave there in the first place." He looked over at his bag. He had packed four days worth of clothes, just in case he could convince his father to let him stay longer, Dementors or no Dementors.

Glancing into the rear view mirror, Bobby saw the hope in the face of the youngest Winchester. He would just as soon let John tell Sam the why of the trip but knew Sam would not be able to wait the five or so hours the trip was going to take. "He wants you to help get Dean to make a statement to the police," Bobby said. "Think you can do that?"

Sam felt his breath catch. He shuddered, remembering speaking to the police about all the events of that terrible day.

_They made him be explicit. He had to tell them exactly what he saw, exactly what the gang did to him and exactly what they did to Dean. It was worse than recounting it all to his dad; his dad hadn't made him tell every horrible detail plus these people were strangers. They didn't know him. They didn't know Dean. They couldn't understand how it hurt. What they did to him was horrible, but it was so much worse seeing his big brother at their mercy, watching his brother raped and tortured. Dean was his hero and that stuff didn't happen to heroes. It just didn't. And Sam didn't want to tell anyone that it had. That hurt the most, telling them that his brother, who was and always would be his hero, had been so horrendously abused. They would only see the injured Dean rather than the brave teenager Sam knew his brother was. _

_Sam reached the end of the story abruptly, not even realizing immediately that he had finished. If they had tried to interrupt him once he started talking about what the Dementors did to him, Sam hadn't heard them. The images of his brother on the table, of Dean being beaten and burned and cut flashed into his mind repeatedly, just like in the nightmares that gnawed at him when he tried to sleep. He felt the hard cold table against his own skin, the painful burning intrusion into his body, the aching shame of something that consciously he knew wasn't his fault, but made him feel so dirty inside that nothing would wash away the feel of them or erase their laughter from his mind. He replayed it all over and over, thinking if he had just done something a little differently he never would have been raped. It was his fault for being careless and stupid. If he maybe listened to his father more, trained harder or practiced more, maybe he could have saved Dean as well as himself._

_When Sam suddenly stopped talking, when he stopped hearing the voice he barely recognized as his own, he was rocking so hard and so fast the chair creaked constantly under him. He hurt practically everywhere, his body one solid ball of coiled tension. His face was wet with tears which only caused further shame. He turned away from the police and turned away from his dad, swallowing back the sobs that tried to break free. He wasn't going to break down. Not in front of them and especially not in front of his father. He wiped at his tears angrily. _

_He heard his father tell the police gruffly "We're done here" then the man placed his hand on Sam's shoulder and guided Sam outside to a small flower garden. It was cold out, but the early spring flowers were beginning to bloom. Bushes were heavy with yellow forsythia blossoms and crocus along with a few daffodils struggling against the cold. His father wrapped Sam into the fatigue jacket he wore then put his arm around Sam's shoulder. Sam leaned into him, finding comfort in the silence and safety in the form of his father's presence._

_"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam told him. He wasn't really sure what he was sorry for. Maybe for not keeping up that Winchester cool in front of the police, for letting them see his tears, for failing Dean…he was just so sorry for everything._

_His father pulled him closer. "It's okay, Sammy. You did real good."_

_Yeah. Right._

"Why? Why does Dean have to do that?" Sam demanded, wanting to protect his big brother from that terrible experience. "I already told them everything!"

Bobby sighed. "Sam, your brother, he, uh, his fingerprints were on the knife that killed that girl—"

"Isabelle," Sam interrupted. Anger flared inside him momentarily. If Dean hadn't stepped up to aid Isabelle, would Juarez and his gang have done the horrendous things they did? Or would Dean and he be at Pastor Jim's, facing their father's wrath for leaving Deidersville without him?

"Right, Isabelle. And it was Dean's knife. His were the only fingerprints on it," Bobby said.

Bobby's implication slowly sank in. They were accusing his brother of killing her? "Juarez told me he killed Isabelle! Dean didn't have anything to do with it!" Sam protested.

"But the police have to hear his side of the story," Bobby said.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "There's more, isn't there?"

Bobby hated how perceptive Sam was. He struggled, trying to figure out how he was going to tell the boy what else the police wanted to know. He gave Jim a pleading look. Jim would be a lot better at this. With a tight smile and curt nod, Jim took over for the mechanic.

Jim turned in his seat to look at Sam. The young boy appeared so tired and worn that he hated to place any more burdens on Sam's shoulders, but Sam was the family's only hope. Only he could reach Dean. "Samuel, they ran a rape kit on Isabelle."

"So? They did one on me and Dean, too," Sam said, scowling

"The results of the rape kit indicate that Dean had intercourse with her, and there is hearsay," Jim took a deep breath, distressed by the mere suggestion of it, "that he raped her."

Sam fell back in the seat and shook his head violently. "No! NO! Dean would never—he'd never—never do that!"

"We know that Sam," Jim soothed, reaching out to Sam, but Sam stayed frustratingly just beyond his touch. With a sigh, the pastor rested his elbow on the seat back instead. "We know Dean wouldn't. The police need Dean to tell them when he had intercourse with her, if it was consensual, and why only his fingerprints are on the knife. It is possible, if the police can't get his side of the story, that they may have no choice but to charge Dean with rape and murder," Jim finished softly.

"He wouldn't do it!" Sam insisted as if Jim and Bobby could do anything to persuade the police of what was surely the truth. The Dementors did it somehow. Made Dean do it somehow. And his brother a murderer? Never in a million years.

"Sam," Bobby said, "they probably didn't give him a choice. Dean just needs to tell them that. If your daddy could get Dean to talk to them, you know he would. You're the only one that can draw Dean out. You've got to get him to tell the police what happened."

"I'll testify against the Dementors," Sam said, clenching his fists. If he had to tell the whole world his shame, he would, if it meant protecting his brother. "I'll tell the lawyers and the judge everything they did. They'll have what they need and can leave Dean alone."

"Dean will still be charged, Samuel," Jim said, his voice pained. "Isabelle was already dead by the time you got there. You can't speak to what happened between Dean and Isabelle."

His lips pressed into a thin line, Sam turned from the adults in the front seat and stared out the window, watching the landmarks slowly roll by that he was learning by heart. The lunch diner that had the best hot fudge chocolate cake, and pretty good grilled cheese sandwiches, too. The gas station that stocked all the newest comic books. The horse farm with the spotted pony that always stood at the fence watching the traffic go by. The bar that served really really good roast beef sandwiches with potato chips that were super crunchy. Absently his mind ticked them off while he simply stared out the window, wondering how Juarez had made Dean do…_that_ to Isabelle. He knew Dean hadn't killed her so he didn't even dwell on that, trying really hard to forget her dead body lying on the warehouse floor, the dark red stain surrounding her naked form.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

John met Sam in the parking lot, his face grim. Sam felt fear settle in his chest as they walked into the hospital. John put his hand on Sam's far shoulder and pulled him a little closer. Even though Sam jumped at the unexpected contact, he leaned into that comforting arm. He didn't care that he was almost thirteen. He needed to know his father was there beside him and that arm over his shoulder helped give him that. Craning his neck he looked up at his father, both questioning and scared.

With an encouraging smile, John gave a slight nod to his young son. "I wish you didn't have to do this either, Sammy. But you have to."

"Bobby and Pastor Jim," Sam glanced back at the two hunters walking behind them, "they told me the police would arrest Dean if Dean doesn't tell them what happened."

John inhaled sharply. The thought of his boy being arrested for rape and murder was almost unfathomable to him. "It's possible."

"Even if I testify, they'll still charge him?"

"I talked with a lawyer, Sam. If the police decide to charge Dean, we may have no choice but to plea bargain. If we do, we can offer your testimony in court in exchange for a better deal. Even so, Dean would probably still have to serve time. Because of…how he is right now, they would send him to a state institution. Getting him to make a statement could make all the difference."

Sam straightened, determination etched in his face. "Then I'll get him to talk to them."

Reaching the sterile hospital room, they found three people standing near the room's window. Boone sat nearby, looking decidedly grim. Upon seeing the Winchesters, Boone got to his feet; he considered this a family affair. Pausing at John's side, he briefly laid a hand on John's shoulder and smiled down at Sam before stepping out into the hall to join Jim and Bobby.

Sam recognized Gretchen and Jason, quickly looking away from their sympathetic gazes. He didn't want or need their sympathy. He was fine and his brother was going to recover from this too. Dean just needed a little time was all. Sam's gaze flicked to the video camera on its tripod sitting near the end of Dean's bed then his gaze went to the stranger with the police, a slender, sandy-haired man with glasses. Momentary uncertainty brushed his face as he looked up at his father. John returned the gaze with confidence, bolstering Sam and erasing the trepidation that filled him.

Sam measured the stranger. "Who are you?" he challenged. He didn't want any more witnesses than absolutely necessary. Dean was vulnerable and it was Sam's job to protect him just as Dea had always protected Sam.

"I'm Doctor Jillian," the man said. "I'm a psychiatrist that works for the police. And you're Sam, Dean's younger brother?"

"Don't say his name. Call him…" No. No one but family could call him 'Ace.' Dean's middle name, that would be okay, Sam decided. "Call him 'Matt,'" Sam said firmly, daring anyone to argue.

"Sam," Gretchen said, easing forward, not wanting to further upset the obviously stressed youth. "We're going to record this. That way we have it all on record and hopefully won't have to come back to ask him any more questions. Okay?"

Staring at her for a moment, Sam reluctantly agreed. He didn't want this recorded, but getting the statement for the police was the point of this venture and he did not want to put Dean through it twice.

"After you've settled by your brother, we'll move the camera so we can see both of you," she said.

"I'll try to keep him looking at me. You keep that camera out of his line of sight. I'm not sure how he'll react if he sees it," Sam told her. He was not certain if Dean would care, but he figured it was more likely to bother Dean than not. More complications were not something he needed. This was going to be hard enough.

"You know what we need to find out?" she asked, leaning down in front of Sam to put them eye to eye.

"Yeah," Sam gritted out, forcing himself not to step back from the woman. "When Dean had sex with Isabelle and how come Dean's prints are the only prints on the knife that killed her."

"That's right, Sam," Gretchen said, trying to sound encouraging.

Sam's gaze turned into a glare that rivaled John Winchester's. "Just stay out of his sight." Sam's look broadened to include the two men. "If he sees any of you, he'll probably clam up."

Folding his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he waited for the adults to do as he said.

The two officers and psychiatrist shifted to the opposite side of the bed, Dr. Jillian pausing at the camera, waiting for Sam to move next to his brother so he could adjust the camera's field of view.

Tossing a final glare at them, Sam approached the bed, "Hey, Big Brother. You in there?"

Sam waited but Dean didn't acknowledge his presence. Glancing at the camera, he watched the doctor move the tripod then give Sam a nod to proceed.

"Hey dickhead," Sam said, "I didn't just sit in a car for three hundred miles to have you ignore me." Sam put his hand on top of Dean's. "Come on, jerk, wake up. I know you're not asleep. I won't read you the next Mightyman comic if you don't start paying attention to me."

"It's Superman," Dean whispered hoarsely and slowly turned his head to face Sam as he opened his eyes.

Sam grinned at him. "Mightyman, Superman, whatever."

"Superman is hellacool," Dean said. "There's no such thing as Mightyman."

"Well, Superman wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed hiding from the world," Sam accused.

"Sam—" Dean began.

"Sorry," Sam said quickly. He should not be baiting his brother and he couldn't blame Dean. Not really. The Dementors did so much more to Dean than they had to him. If the situations were reversed—no, if the situations were reversed, it would not have taken Dean six hours to realize his brother was in trouble and to track him down, Sam thought bitterly. "I have to ask you a few things. Things you won't want to talk about."

"Then don't ask," Dean said simply, beginning to turn his attention away from Sam.

"I hafta," Sam said, trying to get his brother's attention back by squeezing Dean's hand. "Isabelle. Did you like her?" Sam asked, leaning a little closer to his brother.

Dean's voice was flat as he returned his gaze to his brother. "I didn't really know her. She was in three of my classes."

"Did you have," Sam felt his cheeks flush, "sex with her?"

Dean closed his eyes again. "I'm tired, Sam. Let me sleep."

"Big Brother," Sam said, "the police say you raped her. You didn't do that, right? You'd never do that." He knew that was beyond anything his brother could ever do, but who knew what the Dementors might have _made_ him do.

"I didn't rape her, Sammy," Dean said, some reassurance in his voice.

"What happened? I need to know."

Pulling his hand free of Sam's, Dean reached up, brushing Sam's hair out of his face. He murmured softly, "Guess you aren't so young anymore, huh?"

"Tell me, Big Brother. Please," Sam urged. He decidedly did not want to shift the attention to himself. That was not what this conversation needed to be about.

Dean let loose a long sigh as his hand fell back to the bed. "I was tied up. Juarez made her give me a blow job. In the middle of the blow job, they put her on top of me and made her—she got the job done. Then they threw her on the ground and raped her."

Sam felt sick, but doggedly pushed on. "Then Juarez killed her?"

"No. We got away from them for a little while but we didn't make it out before they caught us."

Sam saw that Dean was beginning to withdraw. He needed to get Dean to finish and quickly asked, "When did he kill her, Big Brother?"

Dean didn't answer, the life beginning to fade from his eyes as his focus on Sam wavered.

"Stay with me! I need to know, Brother! It was your knife!"

Blinking, Dean refocused on his little brother. His voice was unemotional as he recounted the event. "After they caught us and tied us back up he used my knife to kill her, wiped his prints off, and made me hold the knife."

Sam watched in surprise as the light returned fully to his brother's moss green eyes and felt a flicker of hope. Maybe talking about it was helping? Maybe it was pulling Dean out?

Dean's face darkened as he twisted his head and faced the camera directly. "I did not rape Isabelle. I did not kill her, either. I tried to save her," he said bitterly. "Martin Juarez made her fuck me dry, made her betray me, then slit her from belly to stern and tried to frame me for her murder. Now leave me and my brother the fuck alone and get the hell out my room. I'm done talking."

"Brother!" Sam said, aghast that Dean was aware enough to know why Sam had coaxed him out of his private world.

Dean turned back to his sibling. "I know, Sammy. It's not your fault."

Sam threw his arms around his brother. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered again and again.

Dean hugged Sam closer. "It's okay, Sammy," he soothed. "I get why you did it."

"Please stay. Every time you go, I'm not sure you're going to come back. I need you!"

Dean squeezed the back of Sam's neck and pulled Sam away from him enough that their eyes could meet. With a sad smile, Dean shook his head. "No, you don't. You faced down the whole gang. You got away when I couldn't. You brought the police and you got me out of there. You're strong enough to stand without me. I'm proud of you, Sammy. But you don't need me anymore. I know now that you can look after yourself." Dean's smile shifted over to a smirk. "And you are almost thirteen." That smirk faded as Dean's arm fell away and the light was swept from his eyes. The heart monitor screamed as Dean's vitals flat-lined.

Sammy shook his brother and screamed, "Dean! No! Dean!"

"Dean!" John gasped, dashing to the bedside. "No, Son, don't do this." John cried, lowering the head of the bed, prepared to start CPR on his son.

Before he could begin, nurses rushed into the room herding John and Sam back from Dean as others began working to resuscitate Dean.

"You got what you needed," John snarled at the police. "Get the hell out of here!"

Pastor Jim, who had been quietly standing in the doorway took Sam by the arm and pulled him out of the way of the hospital staff. Sam struggled against the older man's hold, wanting to get back to his brother's bedside.

"Let them do their job, Samuel," Jim said then rested a hand on John's tense shoulder. "Both of you. Let them do what they need to."

Reluctantly, John stayed by Jim and Sam. All eyes were locked on Dean. Sam slipped past the pastor to go to his father's side. "It's my fault. It's all my fault," he murmured softly, his tears falling as he watched them try to save his brother. He waited, expecting to hear those horrible words "_time of death is…_" just like they said on TV. He knew in his heart that it was over, that his brother was gone. The Dementors had killed Dean as surely as if they had buried a knife in his chest. Instead of destroying his heart, they had destroyed Dean's soul.

He would make Dean even prouder of him, he vowed. He didn't want to be a hunter, not at all, but for Dean he would. Sam would be the best hunter there ever was.

"It's not your fault, Sammy," John said pulling Sam close as he watched the doctors and nurses frantically work to save Dean. "It's mine."

An eternity later the heart monitor began beeping and Dean took in a ragged breath. There was a collective sigh of relief in the room. John might well have collapsed if Jim wasn't standing beside him and grabbed his arm. Sam tried to rush forward to his brother, hardly believing Dean came back from the edge, but John caught him and held him back.

"Let the doctor have a moment," John said, fighting his own desire to do the same thing Sam wanted to do. He knew in his very soul that Dean's heart had stopped because he wanted to die. "What have I done to my boy?" John whispered.


	24. Chapter 24

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators nor considered part of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators have offered me support of completion of the story but have expressed a wish that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the types of topics found in this story.

For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

If you are a fan of Dragonfly, please visit .net/admin/

**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 24**

_Take a look how they found you  
__Take a look what they've done to you now  
__So what was it they wanted  
__Sullen and haunted  
__If only you saw it coming  
_

_--Sick of it all, Finger Eleven_

_Then:  
__April 4, Deidersville_

The bar was between the hospital and the Kokomo Inn. Jim wondered how many distraught souls had drowned their sorrows in its dim rooms with its ceiling fans, sports posters, and dartboards. Jim looked over the rim of his glass of red wine at the roughened, tired, shell-shocked visage of his dear friend. John had gone for whiskey instead of tequila. Whiskey tended to be John's drink of choice when he wanted to maintain some sobriety rather than tequila which he would drink when the world got to be too much and he tried to escape from it for a time. The pastor was glad John had chosen the whiskey. A call concerning either of his boys could come at anytime and John needed to keep his wits about him. Jim was certain this fact contributed to the man's selection of whiskey rather than tequila.

The past terrible hours had been a strain on everyone. John had finally ordered Sam back to the hotel with Jonas and Joshua. After hours of misery sitting by his brother, holding his hand in stifling silence, Sam was now sound asleep at the Kokomo. Bobby and Boone kept sentinel over Dean who had yet to awaken. The doctors assured them all it was unlikely Dean had suffered any damage from the heart attack with the exception of ruining any healing achieved thus far of his ribs. Tests showed the broken ribs had not lacerated the lungs. It was a small blessing, but Jim would take any blessing for the Winchesters that he could.

"Jim, I don't know what to do," John finally said, staring into the amber liquid in the short glass he held. "How can I bring my boy back? How can I save him?"

Jim wished there were some magical words that might ease his friend's mind, but the truth was there wasn't much John could do. His boy was as badly injured mentally as physically and only time would truly help him find his way home to heal. That truth wasn't what John needed to hear so Jim put confident sympathy into his voice and told him what he did need to hear and hoped the worried father believed it. "By doing just what you're doing. Staying by him. Supporting him. Letting him know you love him. Protecting him. Praying. You're doing everything you can. It'll be enough. You just have to have faith that it will be enough. He has withdrawn into himself before. When Caleb and Mac return, they will be able to further help Dean heal, too," Jim tried to reassure his friend. "They helped him before. They'll help him again."

John snorted, bitterness lacing his voice. "Yeah, I did a great job of helping Dean when he was four. Lost inside himself just like he is now. I couldn't do anything then either. I'm a real great parent."

"Stop beating yourself up. Your boys need you strong," Jim admonished, setting his glass down and glaring at the younger hunter. Sometimes he just wanted to shake the man and make him look beyond whatever had captured his attention that he wouldn't let go of. Usually it was a hunt. This time it was guilt.

Giving another soft snort the father shook his head before taking a swig of the whiskey, a slight hiss escaping him because of the burn of alcohol in the back of his throat. He didn't usually buy the good stuff, but tonight he had.

"He wanted to die, Jim. Plain as day. He simply gave up and shut down." John swirled his glass, watching the melting ice cubes spin in the liquid. "Sammy said he was cocky and smart-ass the whole time in the warehouse, typical Dean. They hadn't broken him, Sam said." After polishing off the rest of his drink, he motioned to the waitress for a refill. "But now he's in so many little pieces inside I don't even know where to begin to start picking them up."

"He also gets mouthy when he's scared to death and doesn't want anyone to know it," Jim observed.

John's brow raised then he gave a curt nod. "Yes. He does, doesn't he?" Absently he aligned the swizzle sticks that came with each drink. One for Mary. One for Sammy. One for Dean. This next would be for him. He always stopped at four when he was drinking whiskey. Well, usually. He wasn't sure about tonight. "I don't think the hospital's helping him," John tapped his temple, "up here. I think he needs to be where he feels safe."

Worry crossed Jim's face. "Dean's only been out of ICU a few days and now he's back in it. He nearly _died _today. …He hasn't even woken up yet." Jim left unsaid what was going through both of their minds no matter what the doctors said. _What if he never wakes up?_ "You can't seriously be thinking of moving him to the farm now."

The brunette waitress approached just then and set the fresh glass in front of John. She reached for the swizzle sticks and began to pick them up.

"No, leave those," John said, irritated that the sticks, disturbed by her touch, were no longer lying neatly side by side. "I like to keep track," John explained to her. He handed her his empty glass and tossed a ten onto her tray. After getting his change, he placed a dollar back on her tray as a tip.

The petite woman glanced at Jim questioningly, but the pastor shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Just let me know when you need a refill," she tossed over her shoulder and headed off to the next table to check on the two laughing couples sitting there.

John set the newest swizzle stick on the table and neatly aligned them all once again. He finally met his friend's concerned gaze. "Of course I'm not suggesting we move Dean yet. But as soon as the doctors say he _can _be moved to the hospital in New Haven, I'm moving him. Hell, I'll call Cullen and beg him to pay for a helicopter or plane or something if I have to. I want the boys and me out of this damned town just as soon as possible, and away from the threat of that gang. And as soon as Dr. McCoy says he can be moved to the farm, that's exactly what I'm doing." He took a sip of the fresh drink. Grimacing, he added, "Unfortunately, I don't know if the police are going to agree with my plans."

"I'd say when has that stopped you before…"

"This is different," John conceded. "Not like we can just melt into BFE Americana with Dean needing medical care. I don't know if the police will be willing to let me take him across state lines."

"Are they going to charge him?" Jim asked. "Do you know yet?"

John shook his head. "I'm sure the psychologist has to make his report, and the police officers have to make theirs, and their captain has to pass it off to the DA to look at. I'll hopefully know in a few days."

"If only Dean was able to testify," Jim said sadly.

"Hell, Jim, I'm not even sure he's…" the father choked on his words and his voice dropped to a whisper, as if by saying it softly it would make it less real. "…sane anymore." Tossing back half of his drink he suddenly wished he had ordered tequila instead of whiskey because he really wanted to crawl into a bottle tonight. Even if just for a few hours, he wanted to get drunk enough that the world faded from his mind. He almost lost his boy today. He almost lost one of the two most important people in the world to him. And he might yet.

He always considered Dean strong. Dean did so much for the family, probably more than a teenager ought to. He took care of Sammy, hell, took care of John more often than not. Dean faced down more than his share of supernatural evil with a steady hand and determination that made John proud. His boy though, had faced something worse than anything he had ever faced before. They had tortured him for God's sake. Raped him. Allowed him to escape only to have that hope of freedom ripped away from him. Forced to watch his little brother, who meant the world to him, suffer a beating and rape as well, even conditioned him to fear his own name. Dean took the only refuge he had ever found; he withdrew into his own mind, trying to find peace, trying to escape the truth of what had happened, and John couldn't blame him. Dean didn't want to face any of those truths and wanted to give up. Reluctantly, John understood that as well.

After Mary's death John became obsessed with finding what killed her. Sometimes, when he had the luxury, he crawled into a bottle to try to forget his pain for a little while. If not for the boys he would have probably died long ago. If he wasn't suicidal in his hunts, he would have drunken himself into a stupor or put a bullet in his brain. But his boys gave him hope, gave him a reason to go on and to slog his way through endless research, perfect his skills at hunting, at hustling, and at credit card scams and forging school records for his kids to keep social services off their backs. He became a sharpshooter that would make the best assassin envious and he could take on damned near any supernatural beast and walk away alive. But he didn't know how to help his son.

"Jim, I appreciate you offering to let us stay at your place. Dean needs the comfort and safety of," John paused and gave the pastor a faint smile, "the only real home he's ever known outside of the Impala. Your home."

Jim returned the smile. "You and the boys are welcome to stay as long as you want. He's got friends at the school that will surely come visit him. We've gotten the place in good shape for a wheel chair so we're ready for him when he's ready."

"I still feel like we're imposing," John said. Winchesters didn't take handouts. They survived on their own skill and wit. _And if I asked for help when I ran out of money, my boys wouldn't have suffered at the hands of the gang._

"Nonsense. I enjoy having company. We've got the horses, the pond, and the dogs, all of which will surely help remind Dean of better times."

Feeling his phone vibrate John practically snatched it from his pocket, afraid it was a call from the hospital to tell him his boy had simply given up again or from one of the hunters telling him the Dementors had gotten to Sam. He looked at the caller ID and answered the phone, hope shining in his eyes. Desperation threaded his words as he said, "Cullen, tell me you found them."

"Evening, John. Sorry for calling so late but I just got word," Cullen said through a yawn.

"How soon will Mac and Caleb be back in the states?" John asked brusquely. He needed answers, not small talk.

"My news isn't quite that good," Cullen said, unruffled by the gruff hunter. "We found out who guided them in and roughly where they've gone. I have five locals hunting for them. These locals will be searching the areas we suspect they're in. The trackers said it will probably take them upwards of a week to find Mac and Caleb and probably another good three days for them to get back to the city. If all goes well, they will be back in the States within about two weeks. I'm sorry it can't be sooner John, but that's the best I could do."

John briefly shut his eyes. He hoped Dean had two weeks. "Cullen, I appreciate all the trouble you've gone to. A few weeks is a helluva lot better than two or three months. As soon as you hear from them, have them call me, would you?"

"Certainly, John. I'll keep you updated if I learn anything sooner," Cullen said sympathetically.

"Thanks," John said and ending the call, slid the phone back into his pocket.

Jim knew the news wasn't as good as it could be, judging by the look on John's face. "A couple weeks?" Jim asked.

"If we're lucky, maybe sooner. But you know the Winchester luck. It'll probably be a month."

"Even as troubled as he is, Dean got out alive. So did Sam. Something that apparently hasn't happened previously. There's some luck in that," Jim said.

"And we probably just used up our quota for the year," John murmured before taking another sip of his drink.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_They were beating him. They were cutting him. Then they had him on the table…Then it was Sammy on the table. He heard Sam's wails of pain. They were doing to Sammy the same terrible things. He tried to get up and the agony of his shattered arm almost put him unconscious. He mumbled his brother's name though he was screaming it his mind. Then Juarez came back to him. Beat him more, threatened more of the…table. Cut his chest, used the battery that coursed red fire through his body, slammed his fist into Dean's jaw. Touched him. Made him…_

Dean jerked awake, the heart monitor echoing his racing heart.

Sam wasn't there. He had been there a minute ago when, at Sammy's pleadings, Dean had dragged himself from his safe place, the closet he had created in his mind when his mother died, to tell the police to fuck off and leave him and Sammy alone. Sam had clutched at him as he began to retreat back to that safe place where nothing could touch him. But he hadn't wanted to go back to that safe place anymore. He simply wanted it all to…end. He remembered telling Sammy that Sammy would be okay. So where was his brother and why did his chest ache, and his ribs, his broken ribs, he amended, feel even more broken? And where the hell was his brother?

The door to his room flung open and a nurse rushed in, her worried gaze locking on him. Dean flinched and looked away. He heard more footsteps, heavier, and shut his eyes as he shuddered. Those heavy steps weren't a woman's. Not that the nurse being a woman made it any better.

"Matt," the nurse asked him and he felt her lay her hand on his arm.

_Matt?_ he wondered. _Don't they know who I am? I'm Dea--_

A sudden spike of fear shot through him and he jerked away from her touch almost with a whimper. He wanted to go back to his safe place where soft light filtered through the slats of the closet and he could watch his mom hold and sing softly to Sammy. She didn't notice him, but that was okay because he was hiding and she wasn't supposed to see him. Her just being there made him feel safe. His Dad came in sometimes, a smile on his face. He looked so different. So young, so carefree. And skinnier. Dean always had to stifle his laughter. Not like his dad was skinny, he was still muscular, could still throw that baseball at like a hundred miles per hour, but he wasn't yet that bulked up pure muscle of a man Dean was more familiar with. But before he could go back to that comfortable spot in his mind, Dean needed know Sammy was okay. He heard the heavy footsteps enter the room and felt the person come up beside him, beside the woman whose voice suddenly reminded him of Isabelle's.

Then he smelled…_him_.

Dean sat up, feeling his wrapped ribs shriek pain at him. Didn't matter. He wasn't tied and cuffed this time. His leg felt heavy and he couldn't easily move it, like it still had a rope around it. They let him try to escape before. This time he would make it, pain be damned. He wouldn't survive much longer under their care and he wasn't going to die naked in a warehouse with Sammy's fate unknown and his father, they were going to kill his father and kidnap and sell his brother and maybe they already had. Isabelle had betrayed him. She was as much the enemy as Juarez. Dean lashed out at the woman beside him. His left arm wasn't broken and he swung with all the strength he had. He felt Isabelle fall back and heard her pain-filled gasp. This time aiming for Juarez and his damned stinking cologne-drenched body, he pulled back and punched again, catching Juarez squarely in the diaphragm. He reached out and yanked the rope binding his leg and freed it. It hurt. It hurt so badly. Brutally he shoved the agony deep inside himself. He fed on it, ate the adrenaline that poured into his veins. That burst of energy and ability to deny pain wouldn't last long. He had to escape before he burned it up.

He ripped away the jumper cables from his chest before they could reconnect them to the battery and tore the thin plastic rope or whatever the hell it was from the back of his left hand. He swung himself off the table—oh god not the table—and took pleasure in planting a foot into Juarez's stomach and pushing him away. As he got off the table, he stumbled and fell, shockwaves of pain bringing tears to his eyes but he refused to let it stop him. Escape was his only chance to protect his family. He wouldn't fail them.

It was so freaking dark in here. _Dean!_ The sound of his name almost made him lock up with fear, but he was already hurt so much, what more could they do to him? He knew they were reaching for him and that they were going to try to hurt him again. He punched the nearest gang member in the face. More footsteps heralded the arrival of others. Struggling to his feet he thought he would pass out from the pain, but the rest of the gang was coming. Another gang member came at him and Dean swung his broken arm—something heavy was on it—and caught that gang member squarely under the jaw. A fountain of pain exploded in his arm and his vision wavered as he strangled the agonized cry in this throat.

Another exit, was there an exit different than the one the gang was coming through? He looked around wildly but there was nothing, nowhere to go that didn't lead to more of them. He saw a silver sheet of metal with a glass on it. Probably more drain cleaner. He knocked away the glass and ripped the metal tray from its arm. He'd slam his way through them. He would get out. He had to get out.

He was grabbed from behind. _No! _he howled but only managed a terrified gasp. He was exposed and could feel Juarez press against him. He struggled to escape, sharply elbowed Juarez and felt his own ribs shift and he stifled his scream of pain. Juarez's hold loosened and he wrenched himself from Juarez's grasp. He felt himself start to fall again—something stiff was wrapped around his leg—and he slammed the tray with a satisfying thud alongside the gang leader's head as he did. The rest of the gang was on him then. There wasn't any escape. He screamed his agony as hitting the floor jarred him once again and his vision swam as he clung to consciousness. He might still have a chance and he had to try. He had to. A series of curses poured from his mouth, he spit in the face of someone in front of him, and he tried to swing again but they had his arms held firm in their grasp. They turned him away from them and he knew, he just knew, they'd put him back on the table. "You fucking sons of bitches," he shouted. They had him and the torture would start anew. But he had found his safe place now. He could go there until their attention grew lax, and he would try again. He would find a fucking way to escape these bastards. If he lived long enough.

"I'm sorry Sammy, Dad. I'm sorry," he whispered as he withdrew from that torture-filled world and sagged in the arms of the nurses, doctors, and his two guardian hunters.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

John stood in the shadow of the building across the street from the high school, watching the teenagers laugh, smoke, and clear the way for the group of teens that swaggered across the parking lot. A lime green Cadillac, its engine still cooling, was the transportation for five of them and another four climbed out of a dark blue Ford. His eyes flicked to the patrol car sitting nearby before returning to study the teen who had climbed from behind the wheel of the Cadillac. The gun in its holster snugged against John's chest was a temptation and his body trembled, the strain of not drawing that gun and filling the apparent gang leader with several bullets almost overwhelming. But he wanted every last guilty member to taste fear as their comrades fell around them, so he would wait.

Using his binoculars to get a good look at their faces, he studied the cluster of people that mingled around the young Hispanic. Next time he would bring his camera so he could get photographs for Sam to look at. He hated to bring any of that trauma to the forefront of his youngest son's mind, but he didn't want to miss a single one of those sons-of-bitches.

The time to strike was not now, Jim was right in that fact, even given the boldness of the gang in threatening John and his sons. Any attack against the gang might well further endanger his family. He did not know how far reaching the Dementors were. After both of his boys were safely away and he had been in another state altogether for a time, John would return for his vengeance. While the Impala was a stalwart trustworthy car, the police knew he drove it. He would not risk that anyone might recall it being in the area so he would borrow a vehicle, maybe from Bobby. Extra gasoline carried in the car would ensure he did not need to stop at any gas station coming or going. He would whisper in and whisper out, a reaper come calling, invisible to all. Certainly John would prefer they know their killer, but it was far more important that they meet their demise than know the source of it was a Winchester. Maybe it would be a further torment in Hell, not knowing who had stolen their lives from them.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he slid further into the shadows and answered the call. School was about to start so it was time to head back to the car anyhow. "Winchester," John said quietly as he walked down the alley. He had parked the Impala a couple of blocks away so it was unlikely to be spotted.

"John," Jonas said, his voice filled with concern. "You need to come to ICU. Dean—"

"Is he okay?" John interrupted, fear surging in him as he increased his pace down the alley.

"He woke up and he's stable," Jonas told him. "He managed to get out of bed again. He hit one nurse in the face and a second one he may have given a concussion. He damned near broke my nose and Joshua is still recovering from the blow underneath his jaw from Dean's cast. We finally got a hold of him and he just…just sagged in our arms. He whispered something, but we couldn't hear what he said. The doctor says he's unresponsive again, but his heart is steady and his breathing normal." Jonas paused. "We just stepped out of the room because they were going to tend to him in a few minutes, change the sheets and stuff. The next thing we know a nurse is rushing in, followed by another one. We thought we better stay out of the way, especially when we heard the heart monitor alarm, but then we realized Dean was out of bed…" Jonas' voice was filled with guilt.

"So long as he's okay," John said, "that's all that matters. He is okay?"

Even if his son was delusional, at least he woke up. At least he didn't almost die again. John hung on to that blessing. So long as his boy was alive they could deal with anything else.

"Other than breaking the cast on his arm, he seems to be."

"I'm about fifteen or twenty minutes away. I'll get there as fast as I can. Keep Sam out. Tell him they're giving him a bath or something. I don't want him in there until I get there."

"I'll call Jim back. They were finishing up breakfast and planning on being here to relieve us is a few. I'll tell him to stall."

"Thanks, Jonas," John said.

"No problem. And John?"

"Yeah?" the hunter mumbled as he slid behind the wheel of the Impala and shoved the key in the ignition.

"Considering what Dean's been through, he's still got one hell of a punch."

John exhaled in a half laugh. "I'm not surprised," John acknowledged, ending the call as he cranked the engine and threw the car in gear.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Every red light and every vehicle in front of him made John curse as he sped toward the hospital and his tortured son. Taking the first parking spot he came to, he barely put the car in park before he was out, rushing toward ICU. Down the hall from the doors leading to the intensive care unit the distraught father forced himself to slow down and gather himself. Sam and Jim were probably already in the waiting room so he didn't want to alarm his youngest. He needed to get inside and check on Dean before he took Sam in there.

John approached the door at as normal a pace as he could manage. He stopped at the doorway to peer in. Whatever Jim and Sam were talking about had his son smiling. It was the big dimple-filled grin that John loved to see and hadn't seen in far too long. It was nice to see his son happy, if only briefly, and he hoped whatever had happened to Dean would pass quickly and that smile of Sam's wouldn't be lost to tears.

"Hi, Dad," Sam said, picking up the book he had laid on the end table in the room. "They're giving Dean a bath…" he began, but after seeing the look in his father's eyes, his words faded just as quickly as his smile did and he got to his feet. "What's happened? Is Dean okay?"

John thought he had done a better job at schooling his features, but when it came to Dean, Sam had a sixth sense about him. He walked over to Sam and rested a light hand on his shoulder.

"Calm down, Sammy. He woke up but you know your brother, he never follows the doctor's advice. He got out of bed again. Let me go check on him, talk with the nurse and see if it's okay if we sit with him. I'll be right back out, Sammy. I promise."

"I want to see him," Sam protested.

"You need to wait here," John said firmly.

"But—"

"Sam, you'll do what I tell you," John snapped.

The dark look John gave Sam brooked no argument and additional protests died on the young boy's lips. His father's worry practically electrified the room. Jim move up beside Sam and wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders. Shrugging off the offered comfort, Sam went back to the cushioned chair and sat down, clutching his book so tightly his knuckles were white. Refusing to meet his father's eyes, he stared a picture on the wall of flying geese instead.

"I'll have Jonas come get you if the doctor says it's okay," John said. He hadn't meant to snap at his boy, but now wasn't the time for Sam to be bucking his authority. The doctors and nurses were being very generous letting them stay with Dean and having body guards watching after him at all hours of the day and night. Losing their good will would make it that much harder to protect his son and he couldn't risk that. John's gaze flicked to Jim, silently asking him to keep Sam calm and reassured. Jim gave the barest of nods.

Walking the handful of steps to the door leading to ICU, John buzzed the desk.

"John Winchester to see my son," he barked into the speaker, trying to be patient.

The lock on the door beside the speaker clicked and a soft tone announced the door was unlocked. Pulling the door open John strode into ICU. He saw Anne standing at the nurse's station, an icepack held to her cheek.

"Annie, did Dean…?" he began.

"I'm fine," she interrupted and waved him toward room two. "Go."

"Is it still all right if we stay with him?"

Anne gave him a small smile. "Of course, John. We all know he does so much better when you and his brother are here. We'll be bringing an x-ray machine by in about an hour or so. The doctor wants a full work up on him to see what new injuries he might have incurred, if any. The doctor may order a CAT scan for his hand, too. When the x-ray machine comes, everyone will need to step out to the waiting room."

"Thanks, Annie," John said, not arguing though he wanted to. He didn't give a damn if he was exposed to a little radiation if it meant staying by his son.

Hurrying to room two he found Jonas and Joshua sitting near the doorway, icepacks held to their respective injuries. Jonas pulled the pack way from his nose, raccoon like bruising already clearly developing around his eyes. Looking tired and annoyed, Joshua held an icepack under his chin, dark bruising clear.

"He's still stable," Jonas reassured his friend, "but he hasn't woken back up."

Nodding, John went in to Dean's side, gripping Dean's hand and running his other hand over his son's face, brushing some errant locks off his son's forehead.

"Son, can you hear me?" he practically pleaded. "I'm right here with you. Please De—Ace, please wake up." He gently shook Dean's good arm. "C'mon Ace, it's Dad. Wake up, Son." Cupping the young man's cheek he hated how clammy Dean's skin felt. "Can you hear me, Son?" Nothing. No response whatsoever.

John's eyes flicked to the heart monitor. Dean's heart rate remained steady though he had hoped for some kind of change, some kind of recognition of his voice. His son looked like he was peacefully sleeping and John's heart lurched. God how he wished that were true, but he doubted peace was any part of his sleep, no matter what lies Dean's face told.

"Jonas, Joshua, you can head back to the hotel," John said, not looking away from his son. "On your way out, tell Jim and Sam they can come in. They're in the waiting room."

The two hunters rose wearily and headed out. The sound of rushing feet less than a minute later sounded in the hall.

"Dad?" Sam asked, his voice trembling as soon as he reached the doorway, followed closely by Pastor Jim. When Sam approached Dean's bed, John wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulder and pulled him close.

"He seems to be doing okay but he won't," the father's voice faltered, "he won't respond to me. Try to reach him, Sammy. Try to get him to wake up again." John moved to allow Sam at Dean's bedside. Stepping back, John joined the pastor just inside the doorway, allowing Sam to be alone at Dean's bedside, hoping maybe it would help if Sam and Dean simply had each other to concentrate on.

"Heya Big Brother," Sam said, taking Dean's hand. He saw some bruising beginning to form on Dean's knuckles. "What do you think you're doing? Wake up and talk to me."

Dean's heartbeat increased a little and he seemed to take a deeper breath, encouraging Sam. John practically held his breath as he watched.

"C'mon, I know you're in there. Wake up," the younger boy insisted.

Dean's eyes slit open, his gaze immediately focusing on his brother. "Sam?" he whispered, fearing Sam might be nothing more than a hallucination. His eyes filled with confusion as he gripped Sam's hand painfully hard. "You okay?"

Trying not to wince from the death grip Dean had on him, Sam said, "Of course. Stop being a dick. You just think the nurses are prettier in ICU and wanted to come back here, didn't you?"

After a moment of processing Sam's words Dean managed a half smile. "I'm back in ICU? Course the nurses are prettier here and I know Dad's got a thing for Anne. Trying to set them up for a date." The teen paused then asked, "What happened?"

Although Sam's eyes glistened with unshed tears, his face turned dark and angry. "You gave up. You almost died. Don't do that again. You hear me? Don't you dare do that again."

_Gave up? _His brows furrowed. His memories were a jigsaw and he wasn't at all sure the pieces weren't from a dozen different puzzles. Each little piece he tried to examine only brought terror or pain or guilt. It hurt. Physically. Mentally. It all hurt. He wanted the pain and the memories to go away. He knew his memories wouldn't; they never would. He knew that he could go away though and he wanted to. Sam was safe. If Sam was safe, then he knew in his heart so was his Dad. He could go. He let his eyes begin to drift close.

"Don't you go back to sleep. Stay with me," Sam demanded.

Pain creased Dean's face. "It hurts too much, Sammy."

"You're being a damned girl," Sam accused. "You always tell me to suck it up. Now it's your turn, Jerk."

Maybe he was being a girl. He didn't much care. They'd used him like a girl, like a whore…

With a half shrug, Dean shut his eyes and released his grip on his brother's hand. Sam was okay. He could go back to his safe place now that he knew that. Even if Sam was just a comforting mirage, he was willing to embrace that and believe his little brother was okay no matter what his memories told him.

Sam squeezed Dean's hand. "You stay and talk with me," Sam ordered. "You hear me? Stay awake and talk with me!"

A sigh whispered passed Dean's lips and he reluctantly opened his eyes. Even as a hallucination his little brother could be an annoying shit. "I'm tired. Lemme sleep."

Sam glared fiercely at him. "Only if you swear you won't go catatonic again."

"Fine. Whatever," Dean said tiredly.

"Swear," Sam said.

Dean stared at his brother a minute, clearly aggravated by his brother's tenacity. "All right. Damn it. Shit. Fuck. Asshole. Satisfied? I swore. Now lemme sleep."

"You are such a frigging jerk," Sam said, but a faint smile flickered onto his lips as he gripped Dean's hand tighter. "Okay. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," he promised.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Two hours later Anne stuck her head in the room. It was silent except for the sound of the heart monitor's steady beeps. The young boy sat at his older brother's side, an open book in his lap, one hand loosely gripping the sleeping teen's hand. The father and pastor sat at the small table near the window, playing cards, the father's eyes glancing up now and again to his children and the comforting sound of the heart monitor.

"The x-ray machine is here," Anne announced softly. "We'll need you all to step out. I'll come get you just as soon as they're done. It'll probably take about a half hour."

"Sure thing, Annie. Thanks," John said. Seeing the impressive purple and yellow bruising on her face his eyes softened. "I'm sorry—"

"It's nothing," Anne shushed him. "I've had worse from my patients, believe me."

Giving a nod, John clasped his son's shoulder. "C'mon Sam. Why don't we go down to the cafeteria and grab some snacks for later? Maybe get a couple sandwiches to bring back with us for when we get hungry. We can go to the candy machine and get Ace some peanut M&Ms, too."

Reluctantly Sam squeezed Dean's hand a final time. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Big Brother. As soon as they let us back in."

Walking to the door, Sam glanced back one final time at his brother's sleeping form. He hoped Dean didn't wake up while they were gone. He would rather stay in the waiting room in case Dean did wake but if they got sandwiches now, he wouldn't have to leave at lunchtime. Maybe he could entice his brother to stay awake with M&Ms as the bribe. Dean practically liked M&Ms better than girls. Okay, well maybe not, but sometimes it seemed that way.

Relief still filled Sam that the doctors and nurses had brought Dean back. If they hadn't, his dad would be making plans to take Dean's body to Kansas, to that horrible little town he had no recollection of ever being in but that it had stolen his mother away from them. The thought made a lump form in his throat. Being without his brother? He didn't ever want that to happen. He needed Dean. Sometimes, maybe too much.

Sam pressed the big red button that would let them exit ICU and as he pushed the door open he nearly bumped into a young man dressed in scrubs. Looking up to apologize, Sam froze as memories flashed in his mind.

_A pipe shattering the passenger's side window, Dean yanking him out of the way, and a face leering in at him ready to take another swing…_

…_Helping to steady Dean with one arm, he aimed his brother's 9-mm at the Dementor's chest, as he told the teen coldly, "Get out of our way or I'll kill you." _

_"You won't shoot me," the gang member sneered._

_"You raped me. You raped my brother. You helped do this to him. What makes you think I won't kill you where you stand…? _

Sam launched himself at the Dementor in front of him.

"I'll kill you!" Sam screamed as he tackled the startled young man and began pummeling the blond-headed gang member with every ounce of strength he possessed.

It took both hunters to pull Sam off the bloodied teen. While Jim restrained Sam, John grabbed the Dementor by the front of his shirt, lifting him to his feet to slam him into the wall hard enough to make the thug's teeth rattle. Crushing the gang member's body against the wall, John twisted the teen's arm behind him, stopping just shy of feeling bone's snap and joints dislocate.

"You think I'm going to let you get a hold of my son a second time?" John hissed. "We're not pressing charges, we're getting out of town just as soon as my son can travel. Leave my family alone or I swear I'll burn that god-damned warehouse down around your god-damned heads." John's lip curled as he spat words he hoped might buy them some safety even though he fully intended at least some of those words to be lies. "Tell Juarez he wins. We're gone in a few weeks. Just let us be."

John released the teen from the arm lock and shoved him down the hall just as security arrived. There would be nothing the police could do to this teen other than charge him with impersonating a hospital worker.

The two security guards, officers Brin and Laramie, saw the muscular older man push a hospital worker down the hall and hurried forward to intercede.

"What's the problem here?" Officer Brin demanded of John. Scanning the scene he saw blood dripped from the orderly's nose, his split lip, and a cut on his cheek. The older man was angry but his hands appeared free of bruising or blood. The young boy beside the pastor was another matter. Fury etched the boy's features and he had two knuckles split open with blood splattered across the backs of both hands.

"Well?" Brin demanded.

Remaining silent, the young man flicked a brief look to the guard then returned his eyes to the man who had pushed him, a smug and expectant look on his face. Brin realized he had never seen the orderly before.

"There's no problem sir," John said coldly, never taking his gaze from the young man. "Just a misunderstanding."

The orderly's face remained smug, and a smirk pulled at his lips. "There's not a problem at all. I just wanted to tell Mr. Winchester here how good his son was." The young man's eyes shifted briefly to the boy by the pastor. "How very good both his boys were."

The tension in the hall was practically electrifying and Brin moved to step between the orderly and the others. He was ready to get the orderly's name when the young man turned and swaggered away.

John almost didn't care there were two security guards present. He wanted to wrap his hands around that kid's throat, he wanted to beat the living shit out of the kid, he wanted to plant a bullet in the teen's brain. Instead he clenched his fists and reminded himself he couldn't afford to. Not now. But soon, he promised himself. Soon.

Sam managed to wrench himself free of the crushing grip Jim had on his shoulder. "How can you just let him go?" Sam demanded of his father. "He was one of them! He came here to kill Dean and you know it!"

Officer Laramie turned to the boy. "What are you talking about, son? Who was going to try to kill 'Dean?' Who's Dean?"

Clenching his jaw, Sam had nothing but a hate-filled stare for his father before finally meeting the guard's inquisitive eyes. "Nothing. No one. It doesn't matter. It was just a misunderstanding," he muttered sullenly.

"Doesn't look like just a misunderstanding," Laramie said, indicating Sam's bleeding knuckles. "I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on."

"I banged them on the door, that's all," Sam lied.

Laramie looked up at the pastor. "Do you have anything you might want to add, sir?"

Smiling sadly, Jim shook his head. "Nothing that would be of any use, officer."

The security guards passed a look between themselves. The orderly the young boy had obviously gotten into a tussle with had already disappeared down another hallway. If no one was going to tell them what really happened, there wasn't much they could do.

Everyone turned when the doors to ICU opened.

"John?" Anne asked from the doorway. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine, Annie," John said and offered her a tight smile. "Sammy's hurt his hands. Could you take a look at them?"

Anne waved to Sam. "C'mon, sweetie, let's get your knuckles cleaned up and get some ice on them."

"I'm fine," Sam snapped. He didn't want his wounds tended. He wanted to nurse the pain, he wanted to remember every blow he planted into that bastard.

"Let me talk with him a minute, then I'll send him in, okay?" John asked her.

She smiled at Sam then gave a more affectionate smile to John. "Of course. I'll have bandages and an icepack ready."

"Ma'am," Officer Brin said. "Are you the one who placed the call to security?"

Anne gave a nod. "Yes. But obviously things got worked out." Her gaze slipped to John, letting him know she would eventually like an explanation. "Thank you for your quick response. Nerves can be stretched pretty thin when there's a loved one in ICU."

Both guards nodded but both knew the nurse was obviously lying as well. They had each responded to their share of domestic disputes in the hospital halls but they accepted her words, be they truth or lie. "All right then. Call us if anything changes," Brin said. After a final look at the boy and his father the two guards headed away.

Once the doors to ICU closed and the security guards left, John approached his son. "Sam—"

Sam turned his head away from his father.

"I had to let him go," John explained. "I'm not going to get myself arrested for assault and not be here for you and Dean. Revenge isn't worth that to me."

Sam faced his father, his hazel eyes burning with fury. "Doesn't stop you from leaving me and Dean while you hunt for Mom's killer, does it? Why should now be any different? Now you're going to turn tail and run, even when we _know_ who did it? When _we_ need revenge, we're not worth it! Your dead wife is more important than your living sons!"

The urge to smack the boy filled him as Sam's words cut his father to the quick. "You watch you mouth," John growled, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You know damned good and well why I hunt. Yes, I'm looking for what killed your mother, but I also save other people from what happened to our family and take out a good deal of evil at the same time."

"Strangers who are more important than your own family!" Sam shot back. He saw the rising anger in his father but he didn't care. His father had pulled him off one of the bastards who had raped him, who had raped Dean, and who had tried to kill them both. His father could get his revenge but Sam didn't have the right to extract his own pound of flesh? It was just like his father. Do as I say, not as I do.

Seeing the rage building in both his old friend and the young boy in front of him, Jim knew he had to put an end to this. "That's enough! Both of you!" Jim thundered. "Samuel, your father made the right choice. Dean needs protection more than he needs revenge. If we hadn't been here that young man would have strolled right into Dean's room and likely finished what that gang started. What's done is done. Whether John had been in town or not, this could have happened anyway. It's clearly happened to others." Jim's voice softened, "Samuel, revenge must wait. If you were still attacking that boy when the security guards arrived, there is little doubt in my mind the police would have been called and that teen would have pressed charges against you. You would be sitting in Juvenile Hall while your brother needed you. Is that what you want? Is getting that teen worth not being here for Dean?"

Sam started to protest, then all the color drained from his face. Dean needed him. That Dementor almost got Dean. If he had come just a few minutes later… Sam shook his head mutely in response to Jim's question.

John's eye grew dark and brittle while his voice was a soft, cold whisper. "Son, I swear to you, they will get their due. When you two are safe, when they think they're safe, and most importantly, when the police think I'm long gone, that gang will discover their mistake for ever laying a hand on either of you. Patience is the most important tool of any hunter. To get the job done right, you have to be patient and strike at the appropriate time, not the convenient time."

Straightening, determination etched Sam's young face. "I want to come with you when you come back."

John's gut reaction was 'no way in hell' and he almost gave Sam an unequivocal 'no.' Instead, he hesitated. "Let me think about that, Sam." He saw Sam open his mouth to argue. "Damn it, Sam, will you just rein it back a notch? I'm not saying 'no'. I'm saying let me think on it. Let's see what's happening when the time comes, okay? But if I do let you come along, you will follow my orders to the letter, no arguments. Got it?"

Eyes narrowing, Sam tried to decide if his father was lying or if he really would consider bringing him along. Seeing the aghast look on Pastor Jim's face bolstered his belief his father was telling the truth. Sam still figured his father wouldn't let him come but the fact his dad was even willing to think about it made him feel better.

"Yes, sir," Sam acquiesced.

Looking down at Sam's bloodied knuckles John felt an additional moment of pride. His little boy was turning into quite a fighter. "Why don't you let Annie take care of those hands? That way you'll be close to Dean, too. Jim, if you'll wait here, I'll make the run to the cafeteria and snack machine."

Jim was still giving John the evil eye for even suggesting he might bring his son along when they came back for the gang. The pastor's face clearly told the man there was going to be a lengthy discussion over it. "I'll wait here," Jim agreed.

John strode down the hall. As soon as he turned the corner he stopped, leaned against the wall, and tried to gather himself. He didn't think the bastards would be so bold as to try to walk right into the hospital while two hunters were with Dean twenty-four seven. But, he suddenly realized, only Sam knew what they looked like. If someone dressed like a hospital worker came in, he or she could get right up next to Dean, bury a knife in his side, and be out before anyone realized what happened. John should have expected it. For as bold as the gang was taking pot shots at them, for messing with the Impala, and now this, the gang was stepping up their efforts he feared. If they were that determined, they were going to get to his boys. He didn't really believe his act with that teen was going to persuade the gang to stop but maybe it would buy them a day or so. Pulling out his cell phone John stared at it for a long time before he made that first call. To protect his boys he would swallow his pride again. He needed more help.


	25. Chapter 25

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators nor considered part of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators have offered me support of completion of the story but have expressed a preference that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the types of topics found in this story.

For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

If you are a fan of Dragonfly, see my profile to get the link to the dragonfly fan site.

**------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 25**

_If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman  
__If I'm alive and well, will you be there holding my hand  
__I'll keep you by my side with my superhuman might  
__Kryptonite_

_--Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down_

_Then:  
__April 5, Deidersville_

After the x-ray technician and her machine left, Sam wouldn't leave Dean's side or even let go of his hand. John sat with them, his own eyes distant. He had set the wheels in motion. Now it was a waiting game.

Looking over at his two sons, John marveled at how much they had grown, almost as if overnight. Dean was nearly a man, surely a little careless at times and certainly too fearless, but when had that happened? Sam was not all that far behind Dean. Even if he had a lot of growing yet to do, Sam was proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had inherited his father's obstinate streak and volatile temper. John and Sam were butting heads already and Sam wasn't even quite a teenager yet. John knew it was only going to get worse between them. Pretty soon his little Sammy would be an angry, frustrated teenager. Already Sam resented the constant changing of schools, the way they were always on the move, the daily training. The older man wondered if Sam recognized it was that training that had allowed Sam to escape the Dementors and gave him the ability to rescue his brother. And the Dementors were merely humans. The most hateful humans he thought he had even encountered but only humans none-the-less. The supernatural evil Sam would eventually face was stronger than humans half the time and too often too damned smart. Admittedly, knowing how well Sam had handled himself at the warehouse and even just a handful of hours prior comforted John and made him proud of his son. His little boy was going to grow up to be quite an impressive young man. If his grades were any hint of it, not only impressive, but damned smart. His little Sammy was going to be a force to be reckoned with. He frowned a little at that thought. Yes, well that possibility was years off and one he hoped never materialized.

The way Sam clutched his brother's hand, Dean in healthier days would have call him a girl, or Samantha. John usually found their brotherly exchanges amusing, even if he had to hide it sometimes to be the stern father figure needed to keep the two kids in line. He had always counted on Dean to be Sam's guardian so it shouldn't surprise him that the teen would respond to Sam, even in his confused state. It did surprise and wound him that Dean wouldn't respond to him, his own father. Had he so alienated his sons? He wondered when the last time was that he told Dean he loved him. It wasn't something he said. Not unless his boys said it first and Dean was seventeen. How many fathers looked their seventeen year old boys in the eyes and said "I love you"? It just wasn't done. When had he told Dean last that he was proud of him? There wasn't really any excuse for that…okay so maybe 'good job' was the more likely thing to come out of his mouth, but surely Dean knew that meant he was proud, right?

"Sammy," John said hesitantly. He wasn't good at all with the touchy-feely crap and he knew it. He used to be. He used to tell Mary all the time that he loved her. Why couldn't he do that for his boys?

"Yeah, Dad?" Sam asked softly, mentally sighing. His father was probably going to tell him to get some rest or eat some dinner. He steeled himself for that order, ready to flat out tell his father off. He wasn't leaving Dean's side. He promised he would be here. The only ones he would let chase him out were the hospital staff and even with them, he was determined to try to convince them to let him stay.

John rested a hand on Sam's shoulder and felt his son flinch at his touch. Renewed pain and fury flashed within him. Pain that his once so tactile son was now uncomfortable with being touched. Fury that the Dementors had done what they'd done. And that he had let them. He almost wished he had gunned down that bastard this morning, patrol car be damned, and broken that other kid's arm or more when he was given the chance.

"You've handled yourself better than a lot of adults would have these past few days. You've been a real trooper the way you've dealt with the Dementors, the doctors, the police, and that was one hell of a tackle today. Don't think I don't know how you look after Ace as much as he looks after you." John ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. He just hadn't quite gotten around to shaving this morning. He had wanted to make sure he was at the school in time to watch the students arrive. "I'm pretty damned proud of you, Dude. And…and I love you. You and Ace mean everything to me. I just want to make sure you know that."

Turning, Sam saw the sincerity in his father's eyes. He was taken aback, shocked to hear those words come from his father. He knew his dad loved him, but Sam just didn't think he was ever really good enough at anything. At least, not anything that mattered to his dad. He wasn't _really_ surprised his father felt that way, but to hear his suck-it-up drill sergeant of a father actually say those words? Sam was shocked, unsure if he should be saying "Cristo" and reaching for the holy water or not.

"I-I love you too, Dad," Sam said, feeling his world rocked a little. His dad was scared they were going to lose Dean. He was worried enough that things he normally wouldn't say, he was saying and that scared the hell out of Sam. He would gladly face down any of the supernatural evils his father had faced rather than see his father frightened. There was just something wrong with the world if his sometimes bigger than life dad was scared. His gaze slid down to the still form in the bed. There _was_ something really wrong in the world and he was terrified nothing would ever be right again.

John had been reluctant before to embrace his son, certain he would screw it up somehow, but he wanted to be certain Sam knew how much he loved him. The startled look that crossed Sam's face gashed him as deeply as Dean's lack of response to him did. What kind of parent was he that his own son wasn't even sure his father loved him?

Moving to Sam's side, John put one arm around Sam's shoulders to draw him close.

"I mean it, Sam." John leaned down and, careful to let Sam continue to hold Dean's hand, pulled his youngest son into a hug. He felt Sam stiffen, then suddenly relax and hug his father back with everything he had in him, even releasing Dean's hand to do it.

John let loose the breath he'd been holding and hugged Sam tighter. "Just because I don't say it doesn't mean I don't feel it. Don't ever doubt I love you, Sammy. No matter what happens, no matter how much or often we disagree, that's never going to change."

Sam nodded, breathing in the scent of his father, a faint mix of Old Spice, Irish Spring and the woodsy scent of the hotel's shampoo. Old Spice always made him think of his dad and he figured it always would. Taking in one more comforting breath, he finally let his father go and turned back to the vigil by his brother.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The pulsing sound was slow, steady, and constant, like listening to his mother's heartbeat when she shushed away his tears from a scraped knee. Or maybe like listening to his father's steady chant of "it's okay" as his father held him, rocking him, trying to chase away the memories of flames licking out the nursery window, knowing his mother was inside maybe screaming, definitely dying. Slow. Constant. Like the rise and fall of Sammy's chest against his own coupled with the steady heartbeat of a five year old sleeping in his older brother's arms because of the nightmares that never ever went away.

The scent was familiar. It was something he had smelled so many times during his life, but it seemed odd to be the _only_ scent he smelled. Where was the stench of sweat? Where was the breath that smelled of pain? There should at least be the faint smell of blood, shouldn't there? When did the smell of antiseptic ever stand alone in the lives that they lead?

Steady beeping.

Antiseptic.

Pain.

He knew pain. So many different types of pain. He knew the pain that filled him because they didn't know what had killed his mother and stolen her from them along with any chance at a normal life for his family. He knew the pain of seeing disappointment in his father's face when the shtriga almost got Sammy because he had failed to follow orders. All too familiar was the pain of leaving new friends time after time until nothing was left inside of him anymore, until there just wasn't any point anymore. He knew the pain of seeing Sammy's tears as he tried to soothe away the sobs while he tended Sammy's scraped and bloodied knee. Terrible was the pain of hearing his little brother scream when Sammy went over the wall in the obstacle course and landed on his arm instead of on his feet. One of the worst of this pain was seeing the younger boy's frustration when he just wasn't as good or as fast as his older brother and trying to convince Sam it was just the age difference.

Physical pain he knew almost as well. He was familiar with the pain resulting from running endless mornings, hauling rock-filled backpacks up mountain trails and hurting and aching and being too damned tired to push himself another step even though he did. He had his share of bruised knuckles, bruised ribs, and black eyes. Sometimes these were from fights at schools, sometimes from training with his father or Caleb or Sam. The pain of being used like a chew toy by a black dog, that was something one just did not forget.

This pain was different.

His leg was cocooned, heavy and elevated, and his hip ached. His ribs felt like they were a reassembled xylophone that had been dropped out of twelve story window. His whole chest hurt. Inside. Outside. Every which side. Trumping them all, winning the gold medal of agony, that went to his arm and hand. Wrapped. Casted. Screaming pain.

His mouth was so damned dry it was as if it was full of cottony peanut butter mixed in with a bit of paste to superglue his tongue to the roof of his mouth, just for good measure. There could be no taste when there was no saliva to taste with but he was glad he couldn't taste anything. If he could, he was certain it would be a bitter foul taste of drain cleaner that burned his mouth.

Dim light greeted his eyes, his eyelids feeling almost as gummed up as his mouth. Twilight ambience in a room filled with unfamiliar shapes confounded him and struck a cord of fear within him. Drapes. There were drapes. He suddenly wished they were open. He wanted to see outside. He wanted to see the sky, the sun, the moon, anything. Anything that wasn't brick and dark shadows. He realized his unbroken hand was lightly restrained and twisted his head to figure out why. Sammy. Even while the young boy slept, he was still grasping Dean's hand in his own. It wasn't Sammy of course. It was just a hallucination dug out of his shattered mind. It was okay, though. Seeing his little brother there consoled him anyhow.

Memories welled to the surface of his mind, spilling into his consciousness like shards of glass. Dean's breath was a strangled gasp as he gripped his brother's hand convulsively. The slow constant beeping of the heart monitor increased its pace until the beats practically doubled in speed.

Sam lifted his head and blinked sleepy eyes. "Brother?"

Dean was silent, staring a little wide-eyed at Sam.

"Brother?" Sam asked again, more concern coloring his voice.

Dean continued to stare at his little brother as if he were a mirage, then after a further moment of hesitation the hint of a smirk touched his lips. "Who'd you think? Santa Claus? Or do you hold hands with any good looking guy?"

Sam scowled at him. "That's not even funny."

"Yeah it was. Just a little," Dean said. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to _live_. He wanted to go back to his safe place away from the pain and the memories. Squeezing his eyes shut, the young man struggled to find a point of stability in the ocean of emotions he was drowning in.

Seeing the pained expression cross his brother's face, Sam gripped Dean's hand a little harder, "Stay with me."

Dean's jaw clenched. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck. A truck named the Dementors. With a soft sigh he gave a slight shake of his head. "You don't know what you're asking, Sammy."

Sam almost preferred the brother who asked for him every time he woke up and didn't have that terrible haunted look in his eyes. That look bit deeply into Sam's soul every time he saw it.

It had to be so much harder for Dean than it was for Sam. The Dementors held Dean a lot longer, injured him so horribly, and as much as Sam wanted to deny it, got inside his brother's head. Dean wasn't going to get any better if he didn't start to deal with it and Sam vowed he would stand by his brother every step of the way. No matter what it took, he would help his brother get through this.

"Yeah I do," Sam said. "But you can face anything. I know you can face this, too."

"I don't want to face it," Dean snarled and yanked his hand free of Sam's, wincing at the jarring the sharp movement gave his body. "I'm not some god-damned super hero, Sam!"

"You are to me," Sam whispered, turning away from his brother and bowing his head.

The defeat in Sam's slumped shoulders and the pain Dean heard in his brother's voice was too much for Dean to just ignore. He couldn't shut Sam out. He had failed Sam, god dammit, and if he shut him out, he would be failing him again.

"Sammy," Dean said quietly, reaching out and giving a light tug on the back of the boy's shirt. "C'mon, I'm sorry. I just…" Juarez's taunting words echoed in his mind: _all because he had to be a hero_. If he hadn't, Isabelle would still be alive and he wouldn't have failed Sam. He wouldn't be in the hospital, screwed up beyond screwed up.

"You'll always be Captain One Helluva Big Brother to me," Sam said softly before turning to meet Dean's gaze.

Reaching out Dean lightly mussed Sam's hair. "I'm just De-," he said, struggling to get his name out. Even hearing it from his own lips and he felt the frightened anticipation of pain. "I'm just your brother," he finished. Jesus. He couldn't even fucking say his own name without fear practically swallowing him.

"Captain One Helluva Big Brother," Sam corrected.

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Sure." He wasn't going to fight Sam on it. Sam was more stubborn than their dad. "Could you get me some water and maybe some soup or something?"

Brightening, Sam asked, "You're hungry?"

"No, I want it to throw at you. Come on, when aren't I hungry?" Dean asked cocking his eyebrow. "Water. Soon. Good start," Dean said, his tongue feeling like it was practically glued to the roof of his mouth.

"I'm gonna dump it on you if you go and disappear on me," Sam threatened.

Dean wanted to. He just wanted to slide away, back to the little closet where nothing hurt, where he didn't have to think or remember. Where he felt safe. The fear he saw in his little brother's eyes made him give a reluctant shake of his head. The things he would do for his little brother were things he wouldn't do for anyone else…he shuddered at that thought. Yeah. The things he would do. "I'll be here."

"I'll be right back," Sam said and pulled the door open, glancing back at his brother. "Promise you'll stay awake?" he asked.

"Not going to make me swear this time, huh?" Dean managed a smirk.

A small smile slipped onto the young boy's lips and he shook his head.

Dean returned the smile and encouraged him to go on. As soon as Sam slipped through the door his smile disappeared and his gaze returned to the drapes. If he was just hallucinating, the drapes would be open and he would be looking out over the pond at Pastor Jim's. Because that was a place he would feel safe, a place in the real world he would retreat to if he could.

Scanning the room, he saw Sam's half read book. Struggling, he stretched his arm out, grunting a little at the strain on his injured body, until he finally snagged it. He hugged it close to him, imagining he could smell his brother's scent among its pages. He wanted Sam to hurry back. He didn't really like being alone right now. Too many…memories…circled and paced around him, ready to grip him back in their jaws. His own personal hellhounds. Cradling the book to his chest, he shut his eyes. Sam would wake him back up when he had the water and food. If Sam was even real. If he wasn't, then when the nightmares came, he would just return to the safety of his closet where nothing and no one could touch him.

Stepping out into the hallway Sam found Jonas and Joshua sitting on either side of the door, guarding his brother and his father was just returning from talking with Nurse Rashona at the nurse's station. Sam liked Nurse Rashona almost as much as Nurse Annie. Nurse Rashona was a tall, slightly pudgy black woman who laughed and cut up with everyone all the time. She had cheered Sam up a couple times. And she had embarrassed him half to death a couple times too. But he still liked her.

His father smiled when he saw Sam. "Need a break Dude? Jonas was just getting ready to head down to that snack machine that has the apples and popcorn in it."

Sam shook his head. "Dean woke up. He's thirsty and wants some soup."

Brightening at the good news, John twisted his head to look back at the nurse, "Rashona, think my son could get some water and soup?"

"Water's not a problem, darlin'. The soup, at this time of night…I'll find someone to get something for him. I'll send down for ice and have a pitcher ready for him almost as fast as my boys can inhale a pizza."

"Thanks Rashona." Turning back to Sam John asked hopefully. "How's he doing?"

"He's upset and hurting," Sam said, thinking back to the look in his brother's eyes. "He promised he wouldn't go catatonic again, but I don't think I'd better be gone long."

"Well let's see if we can't cheer him up." John guided his son back into Dean's room.

Dean's eyes were closed but his brow was creased. John couldn't help but wonder which was more painful for his boy right now, his memories or his injuries. For the hundredth time, he wished Mac and Caleb were here.

Sam rushed forward. What was Dean doing clutching his book? "Brother, wake up!" he insisted, resting his hand on his brother's arm.

A small gasp escaped Dean and he jerked away from Sam's touch.

"It's just me, it's just Sam," he soothed. He had not meant to startle his brother but with the way Dean kept retreating into himself, he just couldn't let that happen again. Dean wouldn't get any better if Sam didn't keep him in the real world.

Opening his eyes, Dean's frightened and pain filled gaze came to rest on his brother. The tension seemed to drain out of him immediately and he sighed. It was not Juarez demanding for him to wake up, ready to start a new bout of torture. It was just his little brother. As the confusion in his eyes faded he managed a slight smile. "Hey, Runt."

John stepped up beside his youngest. "Hi, Ace," John said softly to Dean. "We're getting you that water and soup. Rashona will bring the water in in just a minute. The soup's going to take a little bit. That okay?"

At his father's words, Dean's attention shifted from his brother to his dad. His father looked so tired and worn that guilt filled him, knowing his father's condition was his fault. His little brother didn't look any better, worry seemingly etched permanently in his young face. He wondered if everyone around him was as broken as he was and all because of his failure. Dean finally nodded at his father's question.

"How you feeling?" John asked. He hated seeing the haunted look that filled his son's green eyes. Once again he fervently wished there was something he could do to help his boy.

How did his father think he felt? Fine and ready to run the obstacle course so long as his dad cut him a break on the time, what with his broken bones and all? Instead of saying anything, Dean shrugged.

"Don't feel like talking, huh?" John asked.

Dean shook his head. What was there to say? He didn't want to hold inane conversation or tell his father lies about how he felt fine and how life was okay and was going to be candy canes and lollipops in no time. It wasn't. Nothing might ever be okay again and saying 'sorry' for his failures seemed far too inadequate.

"Dad has something to say to you," Sam said, looking up at his father. His dad needed to tell Dean the same things that he had told him. If Dean heard those words maybe it would help. "Tell him, Dad. Tell him what you told me."

Surprise lit John's face as he glanced down at his youngest son. Sam's encouraging and innocent gaze made the elder Winchester swallow hard. Sam moved aside letting John take his place. John edged closer and laid his callused hand lightly on Dean's bare arm, avoiding the faint bruising mottling his son's flesh. For the small solace it offered, he was glad to see the bruises fading. Physically his son was slowly healing. He prayed the same could be said of Dean's mental state. He never should have let those cops in to talk with him. Twenty-twenty hindsight was a bitch.

"Ace, I'm proud of you for getting through this. I know you hurt. I know it's my fault. I know you just want to give up, but we need you. Both Sammy and I need you. And both of us love you. I love you, Ace."

Staring up at his father, Dean had to fight the urge to laugh. He was bad enough to make his father say those taboo words? Bitterness filled a spot in his heart. Why did it always take pain to make his father say those words? Always pain. And how could his father say he was proud when Dean had done nothing to be proud of? Isabelle was dead because of him. And Sammy…

"I know you do, Dad," Dean finally said, but believed only the latter part of his father's words, that his father loved him, though even a part of him doubted that. How could you love someone as worthless as he was?

Apology was written on John's face as he said, "I'm sorry I didn't hear you when you tried to tell me how bad the school was. I was trying so hard to earn enough money to get you boys out of there that I just couldn't think about anything else. That's still no excuse for not listening to you."

Dean looked away from his father. He was sorry, too. Sorry he hadn't taken Sammy and bolted. Sorry he hadn't listened to Sam and not gone to school. Sorry he was such a screw-up that any of it had happened in the first place.

His son's averted gaze was like a knife twisting in John's chest. What else could he say? "I screwed up big, Ace. I'm sorry."

Without looking back at his father Dean gave a small nod. John wondered if his eldest was agreeing that he screwed up big or was accepting his apology. If the apology was accepted, it was surely grudgingly and he couldn't blame his son for that. Dean was a responsible young man who John counted on to look after his younger brother. If he had such faith in Dean's ability to look after Sam, then why did he so readily dismiss Dean's concerns that day? _Because I suck as a parent, _John thought.

When it was clear Dean was not going to say anything more or even look at him again, John gave Dean's arm a light squeeze, choking back the lump in his throat. "I'll go see what's taking so long with that water." he said and turned for the door.

As soon as John stepped out of the room, Sam sat down in the chair that was still warm from his earlier occupation of it. Laying his hand on Dean's arm Sam said, "He really is sorry."

Dean looked at his brother, his eyes angry and dark. "That make you feel any better?" He mentally shook he head. His dad was probably just sorry he had such a pathetic son.

Sam shrugged and looked down at his feet. "Not really," he mumbled.

Looking down his body, Dean saw his arm that hurt so badly was casted fingertip to shoulder. His leg was casted. He could tell his ribs were wrapped and every part of him, everything, seemed to hurt. "How bad am I screwed up?" Dean asked.

"Bad," Sam acknowledged. He had told Dean before but obviously those memories, like so many others, had slipped away. Maybe memories of the warehouse would slip away too. He could hope. "A lot of broken bones. Your leg, arm, head, ribs, nose and probably some other stuff. You've got burns inside of you and outside. They made you drink drain cleaner and used a car battery on you. The doctors moved you out of ICU, but that was before you tried to die."

"Tried to die?" Dean asked furrowing his brow. How did someone try to die short of slitting their wrists?

A soft huff escaped Sam and he swallowed back the lump that had been there all too often recently. "The police made you give them a statement. You did. Then you just-just-just…" Sam had to stop, trying to gather himself. His voice was a rough whisper as he finished, "…gave up. They had to do CPR and everything. We thought…" Sam shook his head, battling back his tears. That was a memory he didn't want keep, a sight he never wanted to see again.

The fright in his brother's face and the way the young boy's eyes glistened with unshed tears were almost too much for Dean. He hated to see his brother cry, he always had. He vaguely recalled times when Sammy was just a baby, and when he would start to cry, it cut into Dean's soul and he would shush him and play with him and sing stupid little ditties to him, things their mom had done for him. If Sam fell and scraped his knee, Dean would be at his side instantly, doing everything in his power to make it better for Sammy. As they got older Dean used different methods, getting Sam presents like books or something. Anything that would bring back that bright smile and those stupid dimples that everyone just melted over.

With an effort he lifted his hand and ran it along side Sam's face, the book sliding off his chest and into the crook of his arm. "Sorry."

"Don't do that again," Sam said thickly, still valiantly fighting back his tears. "You do that again and I will kick your butt," he said firmly.

Sam's threat brought a slight smirk to Dean's lips. "You and what army, Runt?"

"Yoda kicked Luke's butt. Judge me by my size do you?" Sam quipped.

"Yeah, but I'm Solo. You're Skywalker. Skywalker's short, too," Dean said.

"That'll still be tall enough," Sam said resolutely.

A brief silence fell between the brothers until Dean sighed, wincing as his ribs protested even that. "I don't remember talking to the police, Sam."

"You remember anything?" Sam asked. "Like how you got hurt?" He prayed Dean didn't. He didn't want to Dean to remember what happened. To either of them.

"Yeah. I 'member," he admitted softly, wishing he didn't.

"Everything?" Sam asked cautiously.

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Well, gee, Sam, how do I know if I remember everything if I've forgotten any of it?" With a small nod, Dean said, "I remember what happened in the warehouse, okay?"

The shame in his older brother's eyes was painfully clear. "You were brave," Sam said. "No matter what they did, you just kept smarting off to them. I'm proud you're my brother."

"Yeah. I did a real great job of being your brother," he muttered.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. He knew Dean remembered and he felt the humiliation wash through him.

Looking over at Sam he met his apprehensive eyes. "What do you want me to say?" he snapped.

_That you don't remember what they did to me!_ Sammy thought desperately. "You did a great job of being my brother. You always do."

"I failed you. I failed Dad. I failed Isabelle. I freaking failed _everyone_."

"No!" Sam said vehemently, shaking his head. "You've never failed me! Or Dad! And you tried to help Isabelle."

"And look what it got her. My knife in her gut." Dean looked away from his brother and stared at the doorway.

"Don't you go away again!" Sam demanded angrily. He wanted to shake his brother, make him snap out of the self pity and shame Dean had obviously immersed himself in. Why couldn't Dean see how strong he had been in the face of the Dementors? He had been stronger than most anyone could have been suffering under those bastards hands.

"Why not?" Dean snarled and gasped as the pain racked him. "I'm a worthless excuse of a brother and son," he whispered through his pain. "I'm no good to anyone." He pulled away from Sam's touch.

As Dean pulled away from his brother, the door opened and John walked in with a pitcher of ice water and two empty glasses. "Sorry, it took a little longer to get the ice. The broth will be here in ten or fifteen minutes," he said, his gaze shifting between his sons. There was no doubt the brothers had been fighting. Sam was the only one keeping Dean together. If Dean drew away from Sam, they might lose him again, physically, mentally, or both.

Setting the pitcher and glasses on a table, John poured Dean a glass of water and handed it to him. Dean accepted the offered drink, sniffed it, and drank a few sips, not looking at either of his family. The coolness of liquid seemed to ease his sore throat and he swished the water around his mouth, trying to wet down its almost painful dryness. As much as he wanted to just toss the glass aside as self-imposed punishment, he was too thirsty. He hadn't really realized how much until then, and took a few healthy swallows.

"Can I get you anything else? I could maybe find some place open that might have strawberry shakes. Or the snack machine has peanut M&Ms," John offered.

A small shake of Dean's head was the only response he gave his father.

"Sammy spotted a car magazine that has an article on Impalas in it. He thought you might like us to read it you. You've already gone through all the newest Superman comics," John said, but knew his son probably didn't even recall being read the comics. Even though Dean was seventeen, John knew he still liked his occasional Superman comics, though he tried to hide them inside other magazines, embarrassed he was reading "kid stuff" at his age.

John looked at Sam and jerked his chin toward the magazine sitting on the small table. Sam nodded his understanding. It was safe territory and might ease the tension between the boys, as well as help take Dean's mind off of his inner turmoil. John stood a moment, hesitating. He knew his boys would do better talking things out if he wasn't around. With him in the room there would be sullen silence and furtive looks. He had fostered dependence of the boys on each other, but sometimes, such as now, that meant John was the odd man out.

"I'll see if I can't kick somebody in the butt and get that broth up here faster. See if they can't get some crackers with it, too," John told Dean. "You holler if you need anything else, Ace. You too, Sam."

John reluctantly turned and left. Sam picked up the magazine and settled himself in the chair and began reading aloud all about the history on the Impala, not really caring if this car had a 307 engine, or that car had a 396 engine, though he did kind of find the change in car body design interesting as he went through the pictures. Looking through the bangs that had fallen over his eyes, he noticed Dean seem to have settled down and was definitely listening to him. He smiled a little and kept reading. Maybe they could go to a library or bookstore and find a big book on Impalas. If it made Dean happy he'd even read him one of those stupid books on car repair of the Impala that said how much air to put in the tires and how to change out a belt or hose.

_April 8, Deidersville  
_John paced the lobby of the police station impatiently. He could hear the murmur of voices and abstract noises through the door leading to the squad room. The officer at the desk was busy filling out paperwork but John could tell the man was keeping a discreet eye on the few others in the room, especially him as he was on his feet and restless. The others in the room were sitting in the cheap plastic chair filling out reports of one type or another. John was about to approach the officer at the desk again and find out how much longer he was going to have to wait when Gretchen opened the door. Waving him inside, she led him back to a private room.

"What can I do for you Mr. Winchester?" she asked. She had been kept abreast of the son's condition and knew that the teen had been moved out of ICU two days ago. She had to admit she was relieved. The thought that they might have caused his death by perhaps pushing too hard would have been one more bad memory she didn't need. Dean was apparently recovering well physically but was uncommunicative and Mr. Winchester had made it perfectly clear they were not going to talk to his son again without the law behind them forcing the issue. She was also aware that the family and their friends had been under periodic attack, almost assuredly by the gang, and the nurse had informed her of the orderly who tried to get into ICU which the Winchesters had stopped.

The man before her looked exhausted, but even so his shoulders were thrown back and his head held high in defiance as he faced her. She could tell he was going to ask her something that he would not readily accept a negative answer to. For as tired as he appeared to be, he still had quite a presence that bordered on intimidating.

"I need to know if Dean's going to be charged with anything," John said, trying to keep the demand out of his voice. The last thing he needed to do was piss off one of the cops working on his son's case. Just seeing her though brought back all the memories of those few scant days ago when Dean gave his testimony and nearly died.

Gretchen shook her head. "Without Sam or Dean's testimony, we can't do anything against the Dementors."

"You can't get their DNA? You can't prove they raped that girl and Dean? For god's sake, the cops that found Dean found the dead girl at the warehouse and found the Dementors there," John fumed.

"No, Mr. Winchester, they didn't find the Dementors there," Gretchen said, her frustration clear as she brushed back a strand of hair from her face. "There were some teenagers that put our officers on the chase. We've found fingerprints of several of the Dementors and other fingerprints we don't have on file. Dean's fingerprints on his knife and some of the semen found inside Ms. Chavez implicate Dean in her probable rape and murder. Dr. Jillian, the police psychiatrist, has reported that Dean is incompetent to stand trial and, while we believe your son's testimony, any court would throw it out based on his psychological evaluation."

Gretchen's voice was sympathetic as she continued. "We know that your other son was sodomized but you know that any evidence as to who committed that act was lost or contaminated and he's refused to testify. Mr. Winchester, any case against the Dementors is weak at best, and if we did go forward, the defending attorney would get Dean's statement thrown out. We have interviewed other teens at the school. They say Ms. Chavez was promiscuous, associated with Juarez and his gang and that Dean had been stalking her."

"That's a lie. Sam told me what happened," John protested.

Gretchen shrugged helplessly. "Of course it's a lie. I spoke with Isabelle's younger sister. But one voice won't be enough against all the others who will come forward on the Dementors's behalves, Dean could be charged and end up in a state institution. Mr. Winchester, if you want to press charges, we will, but both of your sons will end up in the middle of it," Gretchen said. "The prosecutor's office isn't willing to charge anyone without Sam's testimony, and even then, as we said, Dean would be dragged into it as a primary suspect. Will Sam testify?"

John shook his head. "Not if it will endanger Dean. Not if Dean would likely end up going to jail."

"In all likelihood," Gretchen said, hating every word she uttered, "he'd be prosecuted as an adult. It's unlikely due to Dean's mental state, but Illinois does have the death penalty and it is possible…" she shrugged helplessly. "We'd love to see those bastards taken off the street, and we've tried. People step forward with alibis, or witnesses either don't survive to the trial or recant their statements. If the case were stronger, regardless of Dean being caught in the middle, we'd prosecute. We need an ironclad case and we simply don't have that. The Dementors control everyone in that neighborhood. We thought we'd finally caught a break with your boys."

"The only thing broken is Dean," John snapped. "If he's not being charged, I'm moving him out of state." He slapped a piece of paper on the counter. "Here's my number if you need me. I trust you won't try to stop me from moving him?"

Gretchen shook her head. "The Chavez family is not pressing charges against Dean, and neither are we. We would ask if we acquire new evidence that you'd convince Sam to reconsider."

"If new evidence shows up, you let me know. I'll talk to Sam but if Dean is in danger of being caught in the mess, he won't do it. You can subpoena him if you want, but he'll just clam up. "

"We thought as much," Gretchen said. "We appreciate you coming down, and the information as to where you can be reached. If there's any change in Dean's condition and he's willing to testify, we'd appreciate being informed. The meager evidence we have on the gang will be added to their file for the future."

John started to leave, but paused at the door. "I appreciate your candor and keeping my sons out of this."

"I wish I could say it was by choice."

"You could push it all the same," John said.

"And we'd end up putting an innocent teenager in jail and the guilty would walk scot-free," Gretchen said. "We wish Dean luck."

John gave a sharp nod and left the station, his emotions torn between fury that the ones who did these terrible things to Dean would escape jail time, and elated that Dean wouldn't be prosecuted. He promised himself that they might escape jail time but they damned well wouldn't escape justice.

As soon as he stepped outside he took out his cell phone and made the call he had been hoping he could.

"Cullen, the police aren't charging him," John said.

"Good to hear that Jonathon! I've already made the arrangements we discussed the other day, I'm glad you felt you could ask me for help."

At this point, his pride didn't mean a damned thing to him. His boys were all that mattered. After that gang member tried to get to Dean in ICU, he knew he couldn't risk staying in Deidersville any longer than he had to and he didn't feel Dean was up to a ride in the back seat of the Impala all the way to Louisville. "You've already done so much, paying for our hotel, for Dean's hospital bills--"

Cullen tsked. "My son and grandson would never forgive me if I didn't step up to help. They think more highly of you and your boys than you can imagine. You're family."

"Any word about them?" John tried to hide the hope. He knew if Cullen had heard anything, he would have already contacted John.

"Nothing new," Cullen said with a sigh. "But let's focus on the here and now, Jonathon. How are the boys?"

"Sammy's doing okay. Dean's still withdrawn," John said, running his fingers through his hair as he walked over to the Impala. At this point it had become second nature to do a walk around, checking to ensure no one had touched his car. "The doctor isn't happy, but is willing to release Dean since he is going to another hospital. The hospital in Louisville is ready to admit him?"

"Yes, and I've gotten the foremost hand surgeon in the area put on his case to care for his arm. They have an excellent rehab center associated with the hospital as well, offering not only physical rehab, but psychological support as well."

"And the air transport?"

"I will need to confirm the time, but the medical coach will pick Dean up in the morning, probably around nine, and transport him to the airfield where the jet is waiting. A small medical staff will be on board to look after him. You will need to have all the papers in order so there is no delay getting him released for transport, and you know that can take half a day."

"Can one of us ride with him?"

"One adult. They'll land in Louisville and a medical coach will transport him to the hospital downtown. It's a little over an hour, all said and done."

"Going the whole way by medical coach can't be more than six hours or so, and has to be cheaper," John said.

"The doctor recommended flying if possible. And it's possible. Stop worrying about the money, Jonathon."

Sighing, the father nodded. "Okay. Whatever is best. I'll get things done on my end. I'll have Bobby leave early with Sam in the morning so he can be there when Dean gets to the new hospital. I think it'll be better for him to be there when Dean arrives than here to see him off. Thanks again, Cullen."

"You're welcome," the man said warmly.

John ended the call, slid behind the wheel of the Impala and headed toward the hospital to get the paperwork started. As far as he was concerned, they couldn't get out of this town fast enough.


	26. Chapter 26

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators nor considered part of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators have offered me support of completion of the story but have expressed a preference that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the types of topics found in this story.

For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

Rating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

If you are a fan of Dragonfly, see my profile to get the link to the dragonfly fan site.

**_____________________________________________________________**

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 26**

_Did I wake you? Were you sleeping? Were you still in the bed?_

_Or is a nightmare keeping you up instead?_

_Oh baby, are you feeling guilty for what you did?_

_If you think you're hurtin', you ain't seen nothing yet_

_--Shattered Glass, Britney Spears_

**Now:**

_May15th, Louisville, KY_

For as tender as his knee was, Dean was definitely glad of the Officer Darling's help back into bed after his trip to the bathroom. As soon as Darling returned the saline IV to its metal hook, Dean held out his wrists, waiting for the officer to take the cuffs off.

The relief in both the father and younger sibling when Taz was safely back in their sight was plain to Darling. He knew how he would feel if one of his siblings was having the sort of troubles Taz was having and had then gone missing. He would be one-hundred percent panicked.

With the first hurdle of the family reunion over, Darling knew emotions could quickly take a turn for the worse as talking ensued. 'Taz' ran for a reason. Certainly it was because John Winchester had checked his son into the mental institution. Would Taz explode in anger? Would he say something that would upset the father? Would John Winchester lay into his son for running away? Would the younger brother? It was a powder keg of a situation and Darling needed to maintain some measure of control over Taz in case Taz did take one of his downhill slides.

"Taz," Darling began softly, an apology in his voice as his gaze dropped to the cuffs, "I need to leave--"

Dr. Boroughs entered the room just then and nodded to Darling before turning her focus on the father. The father looked positively wrung out. She wondered when the last time was that the man had gotten a full night's sleep. The young teen at his side looked almost as frazzled, the hint of dark circles under his young, tired eyes.

"Mr. Winchester," Dr. Boroughs said, "we need to get some information from you so we can make arrangements for your son."

His concern obvious, John looked over at Dean, eyeing the officer and the cuffs still around his boy's wrists. "You be okay, Ace?"

A flash of fear crossed Dean's face but that fright washed away as he smiled. "Sure, Dad. I have Sammy here. I won't be alone." Dean settled his hands into his lap. He knew Darling was going to make him stay cuffed and that just sucked out loud. He supposed he couldn't really blame the officer. If things went badly between him and his family, he was a flight risk and he hadn't done much to lend confidence to him _not_ freaking out, getting 'lost', and getting violent. Hell, he'd keep someone like that handcuffed. Still he hoped when his dad got back from signing everything that would send him back…to that place, that Darling might uncuff him.

John hesitated. He knew that smile and tone of voice. It was Dean following his father's request even though he didn't want to. The officer was clearly not going to remove the handcuffs and that was making it that much harder for his son. Turning back to the woman he asked, "Doctor, couldn't you bring me the forms?"

"It's all computerized and your son is a bit of a special case," she said gently. "It would be much easier if you could take just a few minutes to do this. It won't take long. I promise." Aside from getting the man to fill out some paperwork, she wanted to speak with him in private about how he wanted to deal with getting Dean transported to an appropriate facility.

"We'll stay with you the whole time you're here," John assured Dean. "Mac will help get you moved to where—" John choked on his words. After a deep breath to steady himself he tried again, "to where you can get help. Is that okay?"

Clenching his jaw Dean nodded. "Yeah. Fine."

The officer stepped back as John moved to Dean's bedside. "Son, tell me what I can do. I don't know what else I can do to help you." John started to reach a hand out to lie on Dean's arm and then stopped himself. Dean still didn't like to be touched.

_Don't send me back there,_ Dean silently pleaded. Staring into his father's haunted eyes, he resigned himself to his fate and instead gave his father a half-hearted smile. "I know. Go on. It's not like I'm going any where." His gaze flicked to Darling then back to John.

After a moment of hesitation, John nodded. "You look after your brother," John told Sam, gently mussing his hair, and followed the doctor out.

"Officer, could Sammy and I maybe talk alone?" Dean asked hopefully.

There _was_ only one door into the room. Taz wouldn't be going anywhere but there were things in the room that he could use as a weapon or to hurt himself. He finally nodded. "But legs in restraints and your wrist cuffed to the rail."

"I can watch him!" Sam protested stepping between his brother and the officer.

"I have no doubt that you can," Darling said. "The courts, however, would insist you're under age, Sam. I'm sorry. I can stay in here, but he still has to be handcuffed to the bedrail. I'm willing to leave the leg restraints off if I'm in here. I promise I'll stay out of you and your brother's way. I have lots of little brothers and sisters. I'm really good at ignoring sibling whispering."

Sam looked back at Dean.

"I'm okay with it, Sammy. Really. Not like I'm getting out of bed, so the leg restraints, they aren't so bad." Dean hesitated a moment then added. "The cuffs are okay, too." Dean glanced at the book Sam had left on the chair and then gave Sam a lopsided smile. Dean saw the realization color Sam's face. Without missing a beat, Sam hung his head and stepped out of the officer's way.

"Okay," Sam said miserably. "Go ahead."

"Way to make me feel like scum of the earth, kid," Darling muttered as he walked over to Taz. He saw the fear flicker in the young man's eyes and felt even worse. They'd already bent more procedures with this teenager than they ever should have. If something happened—anything—Darling would catch sheer hell for it, never mind how badly it would tear him up inside. Darling shouldn't even leave the room, but if Taz wanted a few minutes with his kid brother in private, well, he would give him that.

"Which arm you want cuffed?" he asked, pushing away thoughts of something happening to Taz. He forced his yawn back. He should have been off watch a couple hours ago, but had told the precinct he'd stick with the kid until morning.

"Right, I guess. It's got the IV and that shoulder is still hurting so I probably shouldn't use that arm anyhow."

Darling took the cuffs off, latched one cuff to the bed rail then put the other cuff back on Dean's right wrist. He checked to make sure he hadn't gotten it too tight, while at the same time got it tight enough Taz couldn't readily slip out of it. Going down to Taz's feet, he flicked back the blanket and gave Taz the moment he needed to gather his courage before stretching his legs out. Darling put the restraints on him. "I'm really sorry, Taz," he said softly.

"I know," Dean said and met his gaze with a reassuring nod. "Can you get me another cup of coffee? I ran out of strawberry shake."

"Sure thing." He gave Sam a stern look. "This time you leave those leg restraints alone. Understood?"

Sam nodded. "Yes sir."

"I'll be back in a minute with your coffee, Taz." He paused and gave Taz an equally stern look. "Don't screw this up. Leave your restraints alone."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Broken record much?"

"I mean it. I'm being easy on you and you know it. Don't make me have to change my stance."

His face growing serious, Dean gave a nod. "I know. The restraints will stay on."

With a final hard look at both of the boys, Darling shut the door behind him and went for the coffee. He needed some too, and he could see room seven's door except when he was actually a few feet inside the break room grabbing the coffee pot. He didn't really expect Taz to try anything, but he wasn't willing to bet everything on that feeling. Sometimes his gut was wrong.

When Darling left, Dean held his hand up, indicating for Sam to stay where he was. Darling was back in under a minute with a fresh cup of steaming black coffee. He handed Sam another mini can of Coke then his gaze took in both boys. "I will be right outside that door, and I will be looking in through the window periodically. You get five minutes."

Dean scowled. "Oh, c'mon. I'm not going to try anything. 'Sides, you think Sammy would let me do anything stupid?"

A smirk pulled at Darling's lips. "You do have a point, but it's still five minutes."

Hauling a chair out of the room with him, Darling shut the door behind him. He looked in the window. Taz gave him a fake grin and waved. Shaking his head, Darling set his watch's countdown timer to five minutes.

As soon as Darling was gone, Dean grinned at Sam. "Now why don't you bring that book of yours over here?"

Sam grinned back at his brother and pulled out the paperclip he'd been using as a book mark. He carefully bent it over double, then bent it again just so, as his brother had shown him a hundred times. He hurried to Dean's side and quickly, triumphantly, picked the lock on the cuff.

"You're getting pretty damned good at that, Runt," Dean said and sighed as he rubbed his wrist, "Much better." Dean eyed the plastic bag with the M&Ms in it. "So'd you bring me more goodies?"

Sam reached into the plastic bag and produced a bag of peanut M&Ms and handed them to Dean. "Would I come without some?"

"Better not. Just like I wouldn't show up without ice cream for you."

Sam settled into the chair next to Dean's bed. "Brother, why do they call you 'Taz'?"

Dean shrugged as he ate a handful of M&Ms. "Darling decided I had Tasmanian Devil in me. He started calling me Taz and I kinda liked it. I didn't really intend on giving him my real name."

"Why?" Sam asked, a shadow of hurt crossing his face.

Popping another M&M into his mouth, his eyes veiled over. He remembered standing on that bridge, the cold air biting into his flesh as Darling tried to talk him down. The courage—or was it cowardice—he felt as he stepped off. The sudden fear of being up so high above the water struck him full force when suddenly there was nothing but air beneath him as gravity dragged him down. A part of him suddenly wished he were back there, jumping into the icy water instead of having to face his brother and worse, a future of being locked in a padded cell and forgotten. A prison, that he could maybe face. A cracker factory? No. He'd just give up. He'd crawl back deep inside himself and forget the outside world the same way it would forget him. What was the point of dreaming that he'd be like he'd been, that he'd ever hold a gun in his hand ready to hunt down some bastard of a supernatural beast when it would never happen again? Not if they locked him away in the nuthouse.

Finally Dean answered his brother. "I didn't want to go back to that hospital. I know Dad'll send me back there. I don't want to talk about what happened. I just want to forget it and move on."

He wished he could forget. He wished he could move on. But their voices never went away. They screamed in his dreams and haunted his every waking moment. He saw her blood wherever he looked. He heard his own little brother's cries of pain and saw his blood. He remembered the taste of the drain cleaner. No matter what he drank, he had to smell it first to make certain it wasn't that burning liquid that had been forced down his throat. He was fucking afraid to even drink anything! How had he let them get so far embedded inside him? But he knew. They'd spent hours making sure he was in his own private little hell. Made sure that even his name would drive a spike of fear so strong inside of him, that they only had to say his name to see him whimper and cringe away. He'd let them win. He'd failed. He'd cracked. He'd tried to pull the pieces back together and rebuild who he was and what he'd been, but all his attempts seemed only to shatter those pieces into smaller and smaller detritus.

Sam gripped the bed railing so tightly his knuckles were nearly white. Why couldn't Dean see the truth of the matter? "But you're not forgetting it. The nightmares wake you up all the time." He bit his lip, wanting to deny the truth he was about to speak. At one time he would never have believed it was possible. But it was. "You're…scared…all the time."

"I'm not—" Dean began.

"Yeah, you are," Sam said, his voice small and sad. "You jump at everything. I'm the only one you'll let even touch you unless you don't have a choice. How can you be a hunter if every noise makes you cringe? I want you to be like you were. I miss your smart-ass mouth. I miss you stealing the remote. I miss you being a pain in my ass. I just…miss you." Sam sighed and knew, as much as he hated to admit it, that his father was right. His family's love just wasn't enough to fix Dean. Maybe Caleb could. Maybe Mac could. But Sam and his dad couldn't and that made him feel like he was failing his brother. Again. "Mac will be there at the hospital. He'll make sure you're helped. He won't let anyone do anything to you. You'll be safe with him there. And Dad and I will visit every day."

"You want me to go?" Dean asked softly. He shouldn't be hurt by them giving up on him. Why shouldn't they? He had given them no reason not to.

Sam shook his head. "No! But we can't make you any better than what you are." Sam gripped Dean's wrist. "We tried! We did everything we could. You hardly talk. You didn't even tell Dad it was the smell of Juarez's cologne that made you freak. He thought you were having 'episodes' he called them. You've stayed… lost, and you won't even let Caleb or Mac near enough to help you. Don't you want to get better? Don't you trust them?"

Giving a slow nod, Dean said, "I trust them."

"Then trust them now," Sam begged.

Quietly, Dean said, "It's not that easy,"

"Why?"

"It just isn't," Dean snapped.

Both boys jumped when there was a knock on the door. Dean hurriedly slid his wrist back into the handcuff and clicked it closed. "Fricking short five minutes," he muttered but was almost grateful for the interruption. At least Darling had the decency to knock and not just barge right in.

"Come in. No one but us cannibals in here," Dean said. "Did you bring dinner? We're hungry."

Despite his best effort, Sam began laughing at Dean's comment. Sometimes remnants of his brother shone through the darkness. He just wished this Dean would stay and the scared Dean, the Dean that tried to end it all, would go away forever.

The door creaked open and Caleb Reaves took a step inside the door. "I hear you asked for me, Deuce?"

Dean immediately tensed and if he weren't handcuffed to the bed, knew he'd try to get away. Something inside him didn't want to face Caleb. He didn't want Caleb to see his shame. His mouth went suddenly dry and he couldn't do more than stare with fear at his best friend.

Caleb could taste Dean's terror like a metallic tang in his mouth. He forced himself to stay at the door when all he wanted to do was rush to the young man he thought of as his little brother. His presence practically set Dean careening off the edge. He doubted, hell, he knew, nothing had changed. One look at Dean's frightened countenance told him that and he tried not to take it personally, but Dean freaked around him because of his psychic abilities, because he was a telepath. He wished he could convince Dean he wouldn't invade his privacy, no matter how badly he wanted to. All he could do was try again and hope. The brief conversation with the officer had been heartening. Dean had talked to the man, even opened up a little. What probably pleased Caleb most was that Dean still considered Caleb his best friend. "C'mon Deuce. You know I'm not going to look if you don't invite me to. That's rude."

"I-I know," Dean whispered but somehow didn't believe those words. He felt like a five year old child as he whispered, "I don't want you to see."

"Then I won't look. Scout's honor."

Dean furrowed his brow. "You were never a scout."

"Sure I was. I've done a lot of scouting on hunts." He grinned at Dean.

"That doesn't count, Damien," Dean said, clearly annoyed.

Caleb's eyebrows lifted in surprise. That was the first time Dean had called him Damien since the incident. Hell, this was the first time they had anything approaching a conversation. "I hear you have a new nickname. Taz."

"Who—"

"The cop," Caleb said, jerking his head back toward the door, "we've been chatting for a few minutes. Thought I'd give you and Sam a little alone time before I interrupted the private reunion. Sounds like Darling—god, what a name for a cop—really went out of his way for you. You lucked out there Deuce. He also filled me in on your double attempt at bungee jumping. You know, you're supposed to use a bungee cord and harness when you do that."

Dean's gaze dropped from his friend and he stared at the half-empty bag of M&M's on the tray. He played with the Styrofoam coffee cup, slowly spinning it around and around. He finally lifted it to his lips and took a drink, taking just a moment to inhale its odor first, just to make sure it really was still just coffee. He squeezed his eyes shut as the memories jumped to the forefront of his mind. He felt that old familiar feeling of wanting to puke. When had the taste of bile and the clenching of his gut become so commonplace in his world? Why did he even begin to think of it as normal?

"I needed it to stop, Caleb. I didn't know how else to make it stop," he said softly. He inhaled and bit back his sob. He'd be damned if he was going to start crying like a baby in front of Reaves. He finally looked back up at the dark-haired man. "Can you make it stop?" he whispered.

"Make what stop?" Caleb asked, though he suspected he knew. He'd caught bits and pieces of Dean's memories and nightmares over the previous weeks.

"The memories. The voices. The smells. The fear. Everything. I-just-want-it-all-to-stop."

Caleb struggled to keep his elation under tight rein. He couldn't just jump into this. Dean would flat out panic. He needed to take this as slow as Mac had taken it with him but he didn't think buying Deuce a book of the Three Musketeers would win him back from his nightmare world. He wondered what might. The demon blood in his ancestry made him psychic not a freaking psych doctor. All he knew was that the teen lying in the hospital bed meant the world to him. Maybe their love for the young man hadn't been enough before, but dammit, Caleb vowed he would find a way to help his 'little brother.' No matter what it took, he would help Dean find his way back to them. "Can I come closer without you freaking on me, Deuce?" he asked.

Dean swallowed and nodded his head. He felt tears dampen his face and silently cursed how pathetic he was. Totally, completely, fucking pathetic.

Slowly Caleb moved forward and gave Sam a reassuring wink. Sam shuffled back into the shadows, not wanting to distract Dean from this first attempt to reach out to Caleb. Even so, Sam couldn't help the flare of jealousy. _He_ was Dean's brother, not Caleb. _He_ had rescued Dean from the Dementors. _He_ had been the one taking care of Dean all these weeks…and if he hadn't failed Dean in the first place…he guessed it wasn't any surprise that Dean would reach out to Caleb instead of him. He felt his shoulders sag at the realization of the truth he supposed he had always known. He was just the brat little brother who couldn't do anything right. Not for his father and not for Dean. He would never ever come close to having the relationship with his brother that Caleb had with him. Sam loved Caleb like a brother, but Dean _was_ his brother and if he had to choose, he would always choose Dean. It hurt to think that Dean would choose Caleb.

Caleb stepped up to Dean's bedside. He reached out and ran his hand over Dean's hair, surprised by its dirty, oily texture. He had expected it to be the soft hair he would feel when he used to give Dean noogies when he was younger. "It's going to be okay, Deuce. We'll get you back to how you were. You didn't fail anyone. You survived something terrible."

Dean leaned his head into Caleb's touch instead of flinching away. Memories of Caleb and of the times Caleb had looked after him, of the time when he'd been so lost as a child and Caleb had been there to help him survive the terrible memories, seeped into his mind. Terrible memories of what, he wasn't really sure; they were only vague recollections now. He recalled the cold winter's day out in the woods and of Caleb voicing his fear that his demon blood made him a demon, and that was the whole reason Dean called him Damien. He knew the two of spades Caleb kept tucked inside his beat up copy of the Three Musketeers had something to do with why Caleb called him Deuce. He never was sure why and had never asked. His 'brother' had come to protect him now and was offering him a hand to try to pull him free of the darkness he fairly drowned in. For the first time, he reached out to grasp it.

Caleb waved Sam over to the handcuffs. Sam slipped to the other side of the bed and quickly picked the lock. As soon as Dean's hand was free, Dean clutched at Caleb. Caleb wrapped his arms around his 'little brother.' "It's okay, Deuce. You're going to be okay."

Sam turned from them, tears burning in his own his eyes.

"Take it away, Caleb," Dean begged. "Make it all go away."

"I have to see to do that. You want me to see? Are you sure?" Caleb asked.

Dean nodded as he cried harder. He didn't want to be alone in his nightmare world any longer.

Caleb shut his eyes and eased his way into Dean's mind. He had been in Dean's head a handful of times and expected darkness, at least until Dean came to him to lead him in. This time was different. There was no guide and the world was one of shadows colored in blood. He heard Dean's screams and tried to orient himself in the twilight world. Dean's screams tore into his soul and he forced himself to stay focused and track down the source of that horrible sound. He finally chose a direction and moved toward where he thought his 'brother' was.

Suddenly he found himself in a warehouse. Back in the shadows he saw Dean weeping, clutching Sam's naked, abused, and mutilated body to him, a silent "I'm sorry" repeated again and again. A scream behind him made him whirled. Dean was cuffed and tied to a chair, blood seeping from a dozen or more wounds. Sam lay on a table, his eyes glassy, his stomach ripped open. Nearby a girl was standing, tied to a metal support pillar, blood seeping from her abdomen. Flames licked around her and her scream seemed to echo forever. The air reeked of a musky odor and laughter echoed behind Dean's screams. He heard Dean's name spoken and a new wound appeared on Dean. Dean's name was repeated and he watched in horror as Dean's forearm snapped in the middle and Dean whimpered. John stood over Sam and looked at Dean.

"You said you'd watch out for him. You didn't. You let this happen to him," John accused.

Now Sam was no longer dead, but teenagers stood near him, each taking their turn as Sam screamed. Dean cried out, begged them to take him, to leave Sam alone, and they only laughed harder. Then it was Dean on the table being sodomized with Sam standing nearby, whispering in his ear, "You didn't stop them. You didn't save me." Sam's head swiveled to where another version of Dean held Sam's body, still mouthing "I'm sorry." Sam sneered at his brother. "You didn't even try to help me. You didn't do anything but sit there and watch. Did it get you off watching them do that to me? Like it got you off when they did it to you? You're disgusting. You deserve what they do to you. You failed Dad. You failed me. You failed her." Sam pointed to the girl whose image wavered between Sam & Dean's mother and a young Mexican-looking girl. "You fail everyone."

Dean was back in the chair, once again cuffed and tied. John was next to him, his voice hard, his face twisted in rage, "You're worthless, Dean. I ask you to watch out for Sammy and you're off hunting ass. Was she worth it?" he demanded as he pointed to the girl tied to the pillar.

Next, he saw Dean making love to the girl, tears streaming down his face as he repeated "I'm sorry" between groans of pleasure.

Caleb took a startled step back when he saw himself and Mac standing over Dean while both Dean and Sam were being raped. "You deserve every bit of what happened to you. We'll get inside you and show you all your failures. You'll relive them again and again and again. We're disgusted by you. You're weak. You're spineless. You faked your unconsciousness and let them turn to your little brother. Look at what they're doing to him. It's your fault. You don't deserve our help. You don't deserve anything but pain and loneliness."

The torture began again for Dean as the gang members circled him, calling out his name each time just before they beat him, or broke a bone, or pleasured themselves with him. Dean looked up and saw Caleb. Horror filled his face and he shook his head violently. "No! You can't see this. Get out!" Dean shouted at him.

Caleb staggered as he found himself back in the hospital room, violently shoved out of Dean's mind. That was a new trick. He didn't know Dean could do that; Dean was about as psychic as a rock. Still holding Dean in his arms, the teenager was sobbing.

"Deuce, we'll fight this. We'll find a way to beat this. Together. I won't leave you. We'll beat those bastards back. I'll get you free of them. I promise," Caleb said, his voice shaky, tears rolling down his own cheeks. The faces of the gang members were burned into his memory. Hunters didn't kill humans; it was one of the rules. But those sadistic bastards were anything but human and he'd hunt every last one of them down.

Dean only clutched Caleb tighter, fisting his hands in Caleb's shirt.


	27. Chapter 27

Don't own any rights to the Boys, songs, or Ridley James' Brotherhood AU.

This story is not approved of by the Brotherhood creators nor considered part of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood creators have offered me support of completion of the story but have expressed a preference that future stories involving the Brotherhood avoid the types of topics found in this story.

For full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

fRating: M. Warning. Some chapters have very mature themes of violence, torture and rape and attempted suicide. Almost all chapters have some bad language. Although I've attempted to avoid some of the more explicit details, sometimes it just can't be done and tell the tale.

If you are a fan of Dragonfly, see my profile to get the link to the dragonfly fan site.

* * *

**Breaking the Wings of Dragonflies**

**Chapter 27**

_I wanna hear you laugh again, without the ache to bring you down  
__No we'll never be the same, if only I could take your pain  
__If it's true what people say, there still is beauty in each day_

—_No more cry, the Corrs_

**Then:  
**_April, Kentucky_

Finally, Sam thought something between elation and aggravation, finally they got to take Dean home. Well, Pastor Jim's home, but it was one of the few places that felt like what Sam figured a home probably felt like. Cullen Ames, Caleb's grandfather, had hired an air ambulance, transporting Dean from Illinois to Louisville, Kentucky and gotten them away from the Dementors. Sam was certain his dad had asked Cullen to do it, which kind of surprised him, but then, Dean was in no condition at the time to make such a long road trip. At the hospital in Louisville Dean's violent reaction to his first name caused the hospital staff to quickly resort to calling him by his middle name of Mathew. Reluctantly, Sam and the others accepted the practice when they had to call Dean by name.

Sam had been very happy when the doctors in Louisville considered Dean well enough to transfer him to New Haven. The hospital in New Haven was only an hour from Louisville and just a short distance from Pastor Jim's. Sam had listened as Dr. McCoy told his dad that physically 'Matt' was healing well and the reconstructive surgery on his hand was proceeding better than the specialist could have hoped. With therapy, the reconstructive surgeon predicted Dean would regain as much as ninety percent use of his hand. Refusing to accept that his brother wouldn't heal completely, Sam vowed he would help get Dean as close to one hundred percent as possible; he would make sure of it if he had to nag his brother endlessly to keep up with his therapy and make him push his limits. He didn't want his brother to remember the Dementors every time he tried to use his damaged hand. It just wasn't going to happen if Sam could do anything to prevent it.

Although Dean's physical condition improved every day, Sam watched as his mental condition balanced those scales, slowly degrading with each rising of the sun. Dean withdrew deeper and deeper into himself as the days passed. But now they were moving his brother once again and hopefully being at Pastor Jim's would help. Of course Dean was doing anything but cooperating.

"Dammit, Matt!" Sam's frustration was plain. It still felt awkward calling his brother by his middle name but he felt funny calling him Ace or Deuce, too. He wished he had a nickname for his brother outside of the typical brotherly names of 'jerk' or 'dick' or whatever. Captain One Helluva Big Brother was just a little too much of a mouthful most times, though he often just called him 'brother.' He glared at Dean. "We're trying to get you out of here and to Pastor Jim's."

Not acknowledging his brother at all, Dean stared out the double paned window of the hospital room.

"Fine," Sam snarled. "I'll tell Dad you don't want to get dressed and would rather go buck-fucking naked."

Dean still didn't answer him; he didn't even seem to hear him. Taking a few deep breaths, Sam bit back his anger. Dean only hid deeper if someone yelled at him. How was it that Dean always knew how to make it better for Sam but Sam didn't know how to make it better for him? The answers must lie in that elusive 'big brother manual' he teased Sam he had. Someone was slacking on putting the right info in the 'little brother manual' then Sam decided. Little brothers had to take care of big brothers sometimes, after all.

Patience.

Pastor Jim counseled him that patience was the key to working with his brother but sometimes it was just so hard to be patient when Dean stubbornly ignored the outside world and everyone in it. Even him. After a final breath to calm himself he laid a light hand on his brother's shoulder feeling Dean try to shift away from his touch. The sudden movement elicited a strangled gasp from Dean as he jerked his still healing body.

"It's just me, Brother," Sam reassured him softly. "You know I wouldn't hurt you. I'd never hurt you. You mean everything to me."

Swiveling his head, Dean looked at his little brother, his eyes dull and almost vacant. After a moment his gaze focused on his younger sibling. Recognition flickered in those empty eyes, returning a faded spark of life to them. "Sorry, Sammy," Dean murmured and leaned into his brother's touch. "I just didn't…I didn't know it was you." He turned his gaze back out the window. It was a bit of a cloudy day, threatening a light rain shower, and the greening trees swayed in the gusty spring breeze.

"Hey, c'mon, keep looking at me," Sam said, glad he had finally gotten something of Dean's attention. Now if he could just keep it. "We're going to get you moved to Pastor Jim's. It'll be better there, don't you think?"

Dean gave a small shrug. Hospital. Pastor Jim's. It was all the same as far as he was concerned and didn't matter. It had mattered once. Pastor Jim's had always been a safe place...well, mostly safe anyhow. Holidays were occasionally spent there, and when they were, they were freaking awesome. Usually Caleb and Mac were there...no. No. He didn't want them there. It wouldn't be safe if they were. They'd know. They'd know everything. Every guilt, every shame, every failure…

"You always like going out on the pond at Pastor Jim's. We can take you out in the row boat, maybe fish a little or something. And there's the garden, and Atticus and Harper Lee will be all excited to see you. Probably slobber you half to death when you first get there."

Sam sighed. Talking to Dean was like talking to a brick wall. Best to turn to the more important things right now while Dean was still 'hearing' him. "The nurse already gave you your sponge bath, right?"

No answer. So much for the idea that his brother was still listening to him. Sam growled to himself, and pulled the wheel chair that Dean sat in back a little from the window. He got between Dean and the outside world, locking his gaze with that of his brother. Sometimes it was the only way Sam could reach him. "Did the nurse give you a bath?"

"Are Mac and Caleb there?" Dean asked softly.

How could there be fear in Dean's eyes with that question? Sam wondered. Caleb was Dean's best friend. Yet—Sam got it. He didn't want Caleb or Mac and their telepathic talents seeing anything inside his head either. He didn't want them seeing anything that happened in that warehouse. It was bad enough that he had to tell his dad about it. "No," he assured his brother. "Just me and Dad and Pastor Jim. Did the nurse give you a bath?"

They weren't there. Good. That was good. Really good.

Dean gave a slight nod. She'd been a pretty blond nurse. Blond like Tara. It was all he could do not to shove her away, to scream at her to leave him alone, not to touch him. It was all he could do not to pound his fist into that pretty face of hers. So instead he had simply hid away.

"You need to get dressed. Dad got some undershorts and pants that snap on the side so you don't have to try to get them over your cast, and then he got you some flannel shirts kind of the same. I made sure he got you a blue plaid, a red plaid, and a solid green one. I'm going to help you get dressed, but I can't do this alone. I need your help. Please?" Their dad offered to help get Dean dressed but Sam had better luck keeping his brother engaged in the world around him if it was just the two of them, so unless he had to, he wasn't going to ask for their dad's assistance.

Dean stared into his brother's pleading eyes. He hated the pain he saw in them. That, like everything else, was because of him. He would prefer to just stay hidden in his safe little niche in his mind but Sam needed his help to…do something. He wasn't sure what, he hadn't really been listening, but his brother needed him and he would do what he could. He would try at least. Giving a small nod he agreed to whatever it was that Sam wanted him to do. "Yeah."

With a sigh of relief Sam brought over the new clothes. It took them awhile but, between the two of them, they managed to get Dean dressed before their father returned to Dean's room with the news 'Matt' was officially released from the hospital. They loaded the wheelchair bound Dean into the church van and got him situated, making certain the chair was firmly strapped in place.

Jim drove while John sat by his eldest son and kept a close eye on him, ensuring the van wasn't jostling him too badly or in case something happened and Jim had to make a sudden stop. John had always teased the pastor that he drove like a little old woman, but right now, on this trip, he was so very glad of the smooth stops and starts and the deft avoidance of any major bump or hole. He swore he wouldn't tease Jim about the way he drove ever again. The man drove as if the most precious cargo in the world was in that van and as far as John was concerned it was. His two boys.

As they drove through town, people waved at the van. All of Jim's parishioners knew that the eldest Winchester boy had suffered some sort of bad accident; his name was included in their prayers every Sunday. Many had children that knew the boys from when Sam and Dean had the occasion to attend school there. The parishioners showered Jim's household with casseroles, desserts, puzzles, movies, books, games and other things to help keep the family fed and Dean entertained during his recovery. One of Dean's classmates made the ultimate sacrifice and loaned Jim (loaned, he stressed) his Playstation and every game he had for it.

John smiled hopefully as he saw Dean take interest in the scenery, smiling broader when he saw Dean's gaze linger on some of his favorite restaurants in town. His son hadn't shown much of an interest in food but maybe he could entice Dean to eat with take out as the bribe. When they passed by the school, Dean's gaze dropped to his lap, his breathing rapid and body stiff until the school was well out of view. When it was, his gaze hesitantly returned to the outside scenery. He seemed to straighten a little when Jim's place came into view and John saw his son's gaze sweep over the land, pausing on the pond.

"No one else is here, right?" Dean asked quietly.

John was almost startled speechless. His son rarely spoke to anyone now, and when he did, he wasn't the one initiating the conversation. "Just us," John confirmed. "Bobby and the others headed back home after you'd been in Louisville for about a week."

Seeming to relax a fraction, Dean nodded.

Jim pulled the van up beside the wheelchair ramp they had built. They quickly undid the straps holding the wheelchair in place and between Jim and John they carefully lifted Dean, still in his chair, to the ground.

"I've got him," Sam said and hastily moved to the back of the chair.

"Sure you don't want some help getting Ace up that ramp?" John asked.

"I've got it," Sam insisted.

Raising his hands in surrender John let his youngest deal with Dean while he grabbed the bag of things from the van that Dr. McCoy had sent home with Dean. The father couldn't help but feel a bit of pride as he watched his much smaller baby boy push his big brother up the ramp without _too_ much effort. Jim had already propped open the front door and both dogs were locked up, at least until the Winchesters got settled. No one was quite certain how the traumatized youth was going to react to the animals.

Sam pushed the wheelchair into the living room and stopped. He was glad they had added that extra couple feet to the ramp like Bobby had suggested. Even so, that ramp seemed like Mount Everest when he was pushing Dean up it.

Following Sam in, John set Dean's things on the settee and gave Sam's shoulder a light squeeze. "Good job, Sammy," he told him then walked into kitchen.

"Jim--" John began as he watched the pastor pouring a couple glasses of sweet tea for his guests.

"Stop it, John," Jim admonished the Knight without even turning around. He put the ice tea container back in the refrigerator then handed John one of the glasses of tea. "You and the boys are welcome here for as long as it takes. No more arguments about it. 'Mathew' can sleep in the downstairs bedroom, you and Samuel can have the upstairs room."

From the living room Sam said firmly, "I'm staying with 'Matt.'"

Jim and John passed a look. It was a queen sized bed in there, but neither was sure it was a good idea for Sam to be in the bed jostling Dean, especially if Sam had one of his nightmares and even worse if he called out for his brother. Dean had certainly proven he would strike out with no provocation as at least one orderly at the New Haven hospital learned. When Dean was waking from one of his nightmares anyone was fair game until the teen was fully awake and knew where he was. The last thing Sam needed was a cast up side the head. Perhaps they could put a cot in there for him and that would work.

"All right," John said, knowing it would be futile to argue the point with his most stubborn of sons. He had to pick and choose his battles and besides, Dean probably _would_ do better if Sam were there. "You can stay with 'Matt.'"

Wearily John sat down at the old wooden kitchen table. Getting his son out of the hospital and into a familiar and comforting setting hopefully would help bring Dean back to his senses. Even now, weeks after the attack, his son didn't like to be touched by anyone, with reactions that could range from flinching to cowering to even, upon occasion, lashing out violently. Getting Dean to talk was a wholly different issue unto itself. Provided he repeated his question two or three times, John could usually get Dean to respond to him but otherwise, Dean stayed silent and lost in his own darkness. Thankfully his youngest could reach Dean through that terrible veil of fear that cloaked and all but suffocated his eldest. Although his answers were short, at least he would talk to Sam. John wondered a little ruefully if it was because Sam nagged him into it and Dean just wanted to quiet the persistent, loquacious boy. That Dean talked to Sam when he talked to no one else, John understood. It was a brother thing. The most frightening thing to John was that his eldest did little else but stare off into space, his eyes holding a deadness the father had never seen except in some of the creatures that he hunted. The nightmares that racked Dean whenever Dean slept he refused to talk about to anyone, even Sam. If Dean didn't improve at Jim's farm, John didn't know what he'd do.

No. He did know. But he didn't want to think about that. Not yet. Not ever, he hoped.

Sam rolled the wheel chair into the oak floored bedroom. The throw rugs had been removed so the wheelchair wouldn't get caught on them. It seemed a little cold and bare without the colorful rugs.

"Which side of the bed do you want?" Sam asked his brother. The left side was near the window which Sam liked. The right side was by the door, which Dean, in other days would have insisted on. Sam knew Dean preferred that side so as to place himself between Sam and anything coming into the room from the doorway, or grab hold of him and throw him out the door if something came in through the window. Even though Sam felt more than able to take care of himself, Dean would still insist on it and Sam figured he probably always would. At least, he would have. Now, his brother's eyes were focused on the window.

"Okay, I'll give you the left side." It was his turn to protect Dean, though it was pretty unlikely anything dangerous would make its way inside Pastor Jim's farmhouse…unless it was human, like the Dementors. But they had no idea where the family was. At least, it seemed unlikely that they would or if they did, that they'd bother to travel so far from their home turf. The brothers weren't a threat anymore as far as they were concerned, right?

He took the bag off Dean's lap and sensed rather than saw the barest flinch from his brother.

"Are you tired? Do you want to lie down?" Sam asked as he set the green duffle on the wooden chest at the end of the bed. Returning to Dean's side, he stepped between the window and Dean, locking his gaze with his brother. Dean's green eyes were so haunted it made Sam's heart ache every time he looked into them.

"Do you want to lie down?" Sam repeated.

Dean blinked as if just now seeing him and gave a half shrug in response but that was followed with a sudden yawn.

Chuckling, Sam bobbed his head. "Sounds like a 'yes' to me. Okay, c'mon then. We'll nap for an hour or so."

"Real men don't nap," Dean murmured softly. "They doze."

Sam grinned. Dean hated when they called it a nap. Kids took naps. "Okay. We'll _doze_."

Sam tugged the covers down then Dean let Sam help him out of the chair and into the bed. Carefully Sam lifted Dean's casted leg up and onto the mattress, pushing a pillow underneath it. After his brother was settled, Sam told him, "I'll be right back."

Not answering, Dean merely stared up at the ceiling, his body stiff and tense. Sam clenched his jaw and went out to the kitchen.

"'He's a little tired, Dad. We're going to lie down. Could we maybe have pizza for dinner? He loves pizza from Mamma Malones.''

"Sure," John said, giving his son a smile. "How's Ace doing?"

Sam shrugged. "Like I said, he's tired. The ride was hard on him even though it wasn't far, but it's not like he gets a lot of sleep."

John saw the faint anger smoldering in his son's eyes. He'd apologized to his sons and had been by their sides tirelessly since the attack. He had done everything in his power to see to it they got what ever they needed, even if he was going to owe Cullen for the rest of his life for the thousands of dollars it was costing. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but his boys, but he wasn't at all certain the most important thing of all he would ever regain. The trust of his boys. All he could do was to continue to be patient and help them as best he could. "I'll order the pizza when he wakes up so it'll be good and fresh. You let me know, okay?"

Sam nodded and returned to the bedroom.

"You cold? Hot?" Sam asked when he came in.

Dean was staring at the ceiling, getting himself lost in the shadows, picking out every little imperfection he could spot and doing the equivalent of cloud watching; making pictures and things out of the randomness before his eyes. One set of shadows and marks he decided looked like a fish. The next one was a cobra primed and ready to strike. A little to the right of that was a pitcher pouring a shadowy pool of water from its spout. Shifting his attention to a different spot he saw a bird soaring through the air. He found if he counted things, or played the cloud game, or analyzed every little imperfection he saw in whatever object was near, it kept his mind preoccupied.

The sound of Sam's voice in the previously quiet room startled him, drawing him out of his imaginings of objects seen in the shadows. He blinked a moment. Sam had asked him something. He tried to sort his thoughts and figure out what it was, but then decided it didn't really matter. Twisting his head his gaze went to the window. The clouds had cleared for the most part and the sun was shining again. "Open the window?" Dean asked.

"Sure," Sam said and lifted the lower sash. The wooden frame went about three quarters of the way up. The day was uncommonly warm and a fresh breeze drifted in.

Dean took in a couple deep breaths. The hospitals he had been in, the windows didn't open or they would tell him it was too cold. He didn't care how cold it was. That's what blankets and crap were for. He wanted the fresh air. The sounds and smells that drifted in the window at Pastor Jim's farm seemed to soothe his soul and he sighed, feeling a tiny bit of his tension drain free. This was the safest he had felt in a long time.

Sam pulled a thin quilt over Dean then went to the other side of the bed and slid in beside him beneath the covers. He threw a protective arm over his brother's chest and nudged himself closer. Dean's eyes closed and he relaxed into his brother, his breathing quickly softening to that of the sleep-laden.

Sam didn't actually sleep. He just lay there next to his brother recalling how many times Dean had lain beside him, a protective arm across Sam's chest, after one of Sam's typical nightmares. Dean had always been there for him and protected him. But Dean was…broken. He was lost. Sam didn't know how to find him, how to bring him back and make him whole again. He didn't know how to fix his brother. The bitter accusations he had screamed at his father that first night in the hospital still burned inside him. It was his father's fault Dean was broken. If he'd only listened to them, listened to Dean, and gotten them out of that terrible school and terrible neighborhood. Sam should have tried harder to convince his father how bad it was. Maybe if he'd tried harder Dean wouldn't be broken now. His father had apologized, something practically unheard of in the Winchester household, but it didn't change anything. It certainly didn't fix anything. Except maybe his dad's conscience. Sam also knew though, that it was his fault, too. As much as he wanted to put everything onto his dad, he was almost as much to blame. He could wheedle Dean into doing almost anything. If he had only tried harder he could have gotten his brother to leave, snowstorm or no snowstorm.

Listening to the lull of the wind through the branches of the tree near the window, Sam laid quietly next to his brother. He could see white cottony clouds drifting across the deep sea colored sky and found himself drowsing, bits and pieces of dreams manifesting themselves in his half asleep state. They were mild nightmares, hunting for Dean, asking everyone where he was, but no one knew. Or him running, though what he was running from he wasn't sure. Just running. Then out doing the morning runs, then the black dogs were chasing him, then Dean was attacked by them and hurting, hurting bad, bad like at the warehouse. Blood everywhere around Dean, but Dean smiling at him, flipping through a porn magazine, oblivious that he was bleeding out everywhere.

Something snapped him awake, his breath coming a little faster than normal. What had woken him? Not that he was complaining, not at all. Then he realized that Dean, while still asleep had grown tense underneath his touch. Glancing at the clock on the nearby table he saw about forty-five minutes had passed. That was about right. It was always about forty-five minutes when Dean's nightmares started. Sam whispered softly in Dean's ear. "It's okay. You're safe. They can't hurt you."

"Sam!" Dean whimpered softly.

"I'm here. I'm safe. We're both safe. It's okay."

Gasping, Dean's eyes shot open, his pupils dilated as adrenaline pumped through his veins. His gazed raked over the room, his body frozen.

Sam sat up and brushed Dean's sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. "It's okay," Sam soothed.

"S-sammy?" Dean had a wild, fearful look on his face that Sam had become far too accustomed to.

"Yeah, right here, Brother."

Unashamed tears slid down Dean's face as he focused on his little brother. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I tried. But they hurt you anyhow. I failed you."

"They didn't hurt me. You didn't fail me . I'm okay," Sam reassured him and wiped away Dean's tears. He wondered how many times he'd told Dean that. It felt like a thousand. It always took Dean a minute or two after he woke up from a nightmare to sort out where he was and remember everything. It was like his brain was permanently fixed in the warehouse and he had to get to a window and look out on the world before it all came back to him.

"I thought they hurt you. I thought they…" Dean whispered, his heart racing as convoluted memories filled his mind.

"They didn't do anything to me," Sam said patiently. Right after a nightmare or scare Dean was at his most fragile, in some sort of twilight existence. "I'm fine. You just had a dream."

Dean was silent as he stared at his surroundings, struggling to place where he was and why he was here. Why he had casts on his body. He smelled the familiar smells and vaguely heard familiar sounds. Pastor Jim's. Then the memories broke over him like waves on a shore and his breath caught in his chest.

"I don't want to sleep anymore, Sam," Dean finally said.

"You want some pizza? Dad's going to order from Mamma's," Sam said, trying to sound enthusiastic, hoping it might make Dean remember how good the pizza was. Then Sam made a face. "We'll even get you that nasty fungus you like. On your part of the pizza."

"Not hungry," Dean said, turning his head so he could look out the window.

Dean's response was not unexpected but it still made Sam swear under his breath. They practically had to force feed him. "You hardly eat anything anymore," Sam said giving Dean his best worried and scared little brother look. He hated using Dean's protectiveness against him but sometimes that was all that would work. "Please, won't you eat a little?"

Gaze sliding over to Sam, the big brother in Dean won out. "Okay," he reluctantly agreed. "Some pizza."

Sam beamed at his brother. "You'll eat at least three pieces, right?"

Although he blanched at the idea, Dean nodded wearily. "I'll try." He would make the effort to eat one piece to keep Sam happy. At least it was Momma Malone's, the best pizza in Kentucky. He just hoped it would stay down. Sometimes food did and sometimes it didn't.

"I'll tell Dad to order it and I'll be right back." Sam got out of the bed and headed into the kitchen, finding his father and Pastor Jim sitting at the table, talking. His father, he realized, looked terrible. Like Dean, he'd lost weight and Sam knew his dad wasn't sleeping much better than the rest of them. He felt a pang of guilt, but one thought of his brother, and that guilt shifted to anger. His bare feet were silent on the wooden floor as he approached the two men. Their conversation died as both looked at Sam expectantly.

"He said he'll eat some pizza," Sam said.

A measure of relief washed over John's face. Getting Dean to eat anything was a battle and one that only Sam tended to win. "Okay, I'll call it in and go get it."

"Don't forget his mushrooms," Sam reminded his father. It was probably unnecessary but he had promised Dean mushrooms and he wanted to make absolutely certain they would be on the pizza.

"Of course, Sammy."

"It's 'Sam,'" Sam said firmly.

His father's eyebrow lifted and he froze as he was pushing himself to his feet. Locking gazes with his youngest he saw the grim determination and readiness to challenge John, daring him to argue. Sam. No more baby boy. No, Sammy was growing, had grown up faster than he ever should have, both with the lifestyle they led and now with this horrible experience. "Okay. Sam."

Pleased his father listened to him, Sam stood up a little straighter. 'Sammy' was the little brother Dean had always protected. It was up to him to protect Dean now, so it was time for him to grow up and be for his brother what Dean had always been for him: strong. That meant he was Sam now. Sammy was a kid. And he wasn't that, not anymore.

Listening to his father place the order, he made sure his dad was asking for everything the way Dean liked it: extra cheese, extra meat, onions and mushrooms. His father gave Sam a nod and something of a smile, then walked out the door, keys in hand.

"Sam," Jim asked, "how is 'Matt' doing? Really?" Dean was largely unresponsive around everyone except for the occasional bouts of violence he had around strangers. Jim sincerely hoped coming to the farm would help bring Dean out of his self-inflicted solitude.

Sam bit his lip. "He's all broken inside and I don't know how to help him, Pastor Jim," Sam murmured softly.

"You're doing a good job. You're being a very good brother," Jim said reassuringly.

"It's not enough. But I'll find a way," Sam said resolutely.

Jim could see how much this was eating Sam up that he couldn't help his brother. Just like Dean, he had to assume the entire burden for himself. "You don't have to do it by yourself. You father is here for —"

"He wasn't when we needed him," Sam snapped, interrupting the man. "He never was when we needed him! Other people always came before Dean and me. Always!"

"That's not true," Jim scolded him gently. "A lot of the things he does, he does for you boys. It just isn't always obvious that it's for you. And, Sam, he has been there for you a lot of times."

Looking Pastor Jim squarely in the eyes, Sam's own flashed angrily. "And a lot more times he wasn't. Dean took care of me. Dean's the one who's raised me. Dean took care of Dad, too. Dean did most the cooking, the laundry, the cleaning up. When Dad would come back from a hunt, he'd get Dad dinner, put Dad to bed, clean the weapons, and do everything." Sam's voice grew in volume as his anger manifested itself stronger with each word. "He's done everything Dad ever asked of him. He's given up everything for Dad and me. And when we begged Dad to get us out of that horrible place, Dad just told us suck it up and keep our heads down. And now Dean is like he is and it's all Dad's fault!" Sam shouted at Pastor Jim. _And my fault too,_ Sam added bitterly to himself.

The pastor stood and went to Sam, resting his hand on the boy's thin shoulder. "You've got to forgive your father, Sammy—Sam. He didn't realize it was so bad. He was backed into a corner and was doing the best that he could. Adults make mistakes sometimes. Even your dad. He's human, Sam. He's not perfect."

Grinding his teeth, Sam pulled away from Jim's concerned touch. "I need to go check on Dean—Matt." Sam turned away and stomped back into the bedroom. Dean was practically curled up in a quivering ball, at least as much of one as his casts were permit. Sam kicked himself for using Dean's name loud enough that Dean could hear it.

"Brother?" Sam said softly, gently laying his hand on Dean's arm. "It's okay, Brother."

Dean pulled violently away from Sam and tried to hit him with his casted arm. Sam dodged the blow easily, accustomed to Dean's violent responses by now, but cursed himself. Why had he let his anger get the best of him and why did he say Dean instead of Matt? _Because my brother is Dean. The broken one is Matt. And Dean's coming back, dammit. My brother's coming back!_

"Brother?" Sam said again. "You're safe. It's Sam. You hear me? It's Sam."

Silence reigned for a long stretch of seconds before Dean twisted his head a little. "Sammy?"

"Yes. You need to get up. Dad'll be back soon with the pizza, and it's time for your medicine. You need to get up."

Dean didn't move.

"You need to get up," Sam said patiently. Sometimes when he really got frustrated with his brother, he remembered back to all the tantrums he'd thrown and how Dean had been patient with him and soothed him. Sure there had also been plenty of times when Dean had marched out in a huff, slamming the door behind, but he was there for Sam when it was really important. Sam hung on to the almost chick-flick moments and tried to emulate his brother from those times: the brother who would tend to his scraped knee, or rub his back as he hiccupped air after one of his nightmares, or even when he refused to take cough medicine that Dean convinced him to take anyhow.

"I'm going to pull back the quilt and then help you sit up," Sam told him. He'd found his brother reacted much better and was much less likely to freak if he told Dean everything he was going to do. Carefully Sam pulled the quilt the rest of the way off Dean then he took hold of his brother's unbroken arm and pulled him to a sitting position. Dean grunted his pain.

"I'm sorry. That hurt your ribs, didn't it?" Sam said with a grimace, apology clear in his voice. He hated causing Dean any more pain. His brother didn't deserve any more pain, he didn't deserve any of this at all.

"Used to it," Dean said flatly. Even with all the pills he took, he still hurt. He vaguely recalled all the drugs Juarez had pumped into him. They had taken away the pain, all of the pain. At the moment he wished for that oblivion again.

After Sam coaxed Dean into the wheel chair, he propped his casted leg up. "Do you have to go to the bathroom or anything?"

Dean turned his head toward the bathroom attached to the room. Hiding in his safe place was good, but he would be damned if he would piss himself. He gave a slight nod. "Yeah. I do."

Sam wheeled him in and set the brakes on the wheel chair. "You need any help?" Sam asked.

A soft snort escaped Dean. "No. I can still piss by myself." Carefully maneuvering himself out of the chair, Dean leaned heavily on the sink. "Take the chair out. Gonna wash off."

Sam brightened immediately. That was the first interest Dean had shown in cleaning up without being prodded. He felt it was a good sign. Maybe being at Pastor Jim's was helping already. "Yeah. Sure thing. I'll wait right outside. Just call me when you're ready to come out."

Unlocking the wheels Sam backed the chair out and shut the door behind him. He sat down in the wheelchair and listened as Dean grunted and huffed inside. He heard Dean fill the sink and then the splashing of water. His attention turned to the window as he listened for his brother to call for him.

The white clouds began to gray over again as the sun played hide and seek behind them. From the window he could see some of the pond. The rowboat was tied up to the dock and bobbed lazily as the water lapped softly at the shore and rustled the cattails that grew in tall patches there. Sam soaked up the scenery. It felt good to be someplace where he didn't have to worry about child protective services or whether or not the appliances worked. A place with its own washer and dryer and eating off dishes that weren't chipped and broken. Even though he was mad at him, he was glad to his father was with them and not on some hunt he might not come back from.

Abruptly Sam realized that he hadn't heard any noises in the bathroom for awhile.

"You okay?" Sam asked and rapped softly on the door. When Dean didn't answer, Sam twisted the old enameled doorknob and peeked in. Dean sat on the toilet, its lid down. He held an open pocketknife in his left hand, staring at it.

"Brother?" Sam asked softly.

Dean looked up at him, tears dripping down his face. "It's covered by the cast, Sammy. Isn't that funny? I don't want to mess up the cast, so I can get to my wrist."

"Why would you—" Sam began, his gaze darting between the blade, the case, and his brother's tear streaked face. The implication was like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head and chilling him to the bone. How could his brother even _think_ of such a thing?

Sam marched forward and snatched the knife from Dean's hand, setting it on the sink. He grabbed Dean's shoulders and shook him. "What do you think you're doing?" Sam hissed at him.

Dean looked stunned, staring at his little brother with shock.

"Okay, they beat you up. They did terrible things to you. They broke your bones, and burned you, and made you drink stuff, and …and raped you." He saw Dean's breath catch. "And then they gave you drugs and they tried to kill you. They were going to kill you. But you fought them. You had a sarcastic comment for anything they did. You were stronger than them. And you're going to let them beat you now? When they aren't even here? You're going to let them win?" Anguish filled Sam's voice and was mirrored in his eyes as he asked, "You're going to leave me?"

"Failed you. They won," Dean whispered. "Because I wasn't strong enough."

"Those are just dreams," Sam insisted. "Yeah, so they beat me up a little, but I got away," Sam lied, hoping he could convince his brother that they hadn't touched him, hoping that the lie might help Dean let go of the guilt he shouldn't be carrying. "I got away because of everything you've taught me about fighting. I got away because of you."

"They raped you, Sammy. I know they did." Dean's voice was barely a whisper at this point, a murmur as if he were only talking to himself.

"Those are just nightmares," Sam insisted again. "They didn't touch me. You didn't fail me. I failed you. I knew it inside me that you were in trouble but I didn't do anything. When I got home and you weren't there, it took me forever to find you. And then I had to call the police. I even lost your thirty dollars you worked so hard for."

Dean finally looked into Sam's eyes, his own filled with distrust. "Didn't touch you?"

"No, they didn't."

"Swear," Dean demanded.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I swear."

Dean sat in silence for several seconds and Sam could see his brother was trying hard to remember. He prayed Dean bought the lie, not that it would really matter he supposed. By tomorrow Dean would forget again or maybe the nightmares simply overwhelmed the lies Sam tried so hard to convince him were true.

The tension suddenly poured out of his brother. "Didn't fail you."

"You've never failed me," Sam said, sliding the pocket knife into his back pocket. Where had Dean laid his hands on a pocket knife? And when? Maybe it was in the bathroom and he found it. Sam didn't want to believe his brother had been planning it. He wanted to believe Dean came across the knife and the thought simply occurred to him. That wasn't much more comforting, but it was a little.

Sam hugged his brother, wondering if they were going to have to watch and make certain Dean didn't have access to weapons.

Dean put his one good arm around Sam and held him tightly. "Die before I failed you, Sammy. Die."

"Don't be an ass," Sam muttered wishing his brother would stop the recriminations though he suspected all the painkillers probably weren't helping his mood or memory. The antidepressants sure weren't doing squat. "And I swear, if you try anything so stupid as suicide, I'll hunt your ghost down and make you watch Lifetime movies until you puke ectoplasm."

"A fate worse than death," Dean agreed, dredging up a smile at Sam's threat. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm just….confused."

Sam held him a little tighter, "Dude, you're on massive painkillers. You have to do god-awful breathing exercises to keep from getting pneumonia. You have nightmares that rival me at my worst. You're stuck in a wheel chair and have like twenty or thirty bones on the mend, and burns that are still healing, and bruises inside you still. It's okay to be confused. But if you ever feel like you just can't deal, tell me. You can hold on to me. I'll help you. I'll lead you through it until I get you back out where you can see and think again. Promise me you won't leave me. Promise me." Sam pulled back from his brother and looked into his face.

Swallowing hard Dean offered the only thing he could. "I'll try."

The thought of losing his brother after all of this was almost more than Sam could bear. They'd been through too much for Dean to just give up now. He felt tears sting his eyes and moisten his cheeks. "No. Promise me!" Sam demanded.

Dean's face creased with pain. "Don't cry, Sammy. Please don't cry. Okay. Promise. I promise."

"You never break your promises. Never," Sam said.

Dean stared at his little brother. Sam needed him to be strong. He could try, at least for a little bit, while his thoughts were semi-clear and he could see and remember his brother. "Yeah, okay, okay," Dean said and grabbed a tissue and wiped away Sam's tears, ignoring the remnants of his own on his face. It took effort but he managed to keep his hands from shaking. "Just stop crying already," Dean said, a hint of his old self in his voice. Strong. He needed to be strong and give Sam reassurance. "You're acting like a girl, Samantha."

Sam sniffled. "Better than acting like a stupid jerk, Deana," he answered, though he would argue he was acting more like a scared to death little brother rather than a girl.

"Hah," Dean scoffed as he tossed the tissue into the trash. "You're being a girl. That means I can call you a bitch."

"Jerk," Sam said but was almost doing somersaults inside. This was the annoying, pain-in-the-ass big brother he wanted back. Dean could call him Samantha all he wanted just so long as he stayed with Sam and didn't get lost again.

"Bitch," Dean said and dredged up a half-hearted smile. "Okay. Get me the chair. Then get me my drugs."

"You have to do your breathing exercises too," Sam reminded him.

"After dinner," Dean said, trying not to make a face at the thought of eating.

Sam gave him a mild glare then relented. "Okay. After pizza."

When Sam turned away, Dean's smile disappeared and he looked back at the wrist hidden beneath his cast, a flicker of longing in his eyes.


End file.
